


Disjointed heart

by lovestillaround



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Dreams and Nightmares, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Hopeful Ending, Hurt, Insecurity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regret, Relationship Conflict, Scars, Sectumsempra Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Shame, Therapy, Touch Aversion, Trust Issues, body image issues, identity crisis, resocialisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:07:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26349067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovestillaround/pseuds/lovestillaround
Summary: Draco tries to take control over his life whenever he can. He does whatever is best for him. He protects himself in ways his parents didn’t protect him. He tries to minimise the discomfort he feels by avoiding most people, by covering himself up, creating barriers and putting up walls.Maybe he has lost himself in it all.Maybe he never really knew who he was in the first place.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 11
Kudos: 190
Collections: H/D Hurt!Fest 2020





	Disjointed heart

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [redacted] for not only beta-reading the story, but also for letting me rant about Draco for way too many hours and encouraging me when I needed it most. You’re irreplaceable! Also, big thank you to the mods! Ironically, this fest has been my light in the darkness in the last couple of months.
> 
> To the anonymous person who left this prompt (22) - thank you for the inspiration. If you decide to read this fic, I hope you'll like it (a bit). 
> 
> More potentially triggering things that appear in the story:  
> \- sexual content  
> \- mentions of food  
> \- past imprisonment  
> \- past war and torture (canon-compliant)  
> \- government having power over individuals with a criminal past  
> \- mentions of society being hostile  
> \- implied (moderate) depression  
> \- physical pain of unknown origin, mental pain  
> \- self-neglect  
> \- non-consensual (non-sexual) touching  
> \- internalised toxic masculinity  
> \- internalised sanism  
> \- potion use, mention of possibly developing an addiction  
> \- mentions of fire, fear of burning/suffocating

Every time Harry gives him head, Draco is surprised by how intense it feels. The worst thing is that it’s not like he gets phenomenal satisfaction from engaging in any sex acts—it’s rather that the rest of his life is surprisingly bland. Any time he experiences pleasure, he’s almost shocked that he still has the capacity for it. 

Still, when Harry looks up from between his legs, Draco wants to assure him that he did good. He gestures for him to come closer and kisses him with what he thinks is enough intensity and passion.

Some people would say that he’s faking it, or that him acting this way is unfair, but Draco has his reasons. There are things he has to deal with it, and he’ll deal with them, in his own time.

The kiss ends, and Harry settles beside him, lays his head on Draco’s chest and slowly caresses the soft fabric of his shirt.

Draco closes his eyes. Sometimes, he still can’t stand how ridiculous everything is. Him lying on a crappy bed in a rented flat in an obscure village in the south. Him lying there with _Potter_. Him being alive at all. Him having sex with the saviour of the wizarding world, as if that’s a thing a former Death Eater does. Having his cock out but never— _never—_ allowing Harry to see his chest bare.

“Mrs Weasley invited us for dinner,” Harry says.

Draco grunts. He knew that this moment of peace wouldn’t last for long. “Well, if you expect me to go, then—”

Harry’s tone of voice is level and neutral as he interrupts him, “Just thought I’d ask.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask.”

Harry stops stroking his chest. He also raises his head and looks at Draco. “Will you go with me to Mrs Weasley?”

Draco doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

He can truly see the emotions flowing through and changing on Harry’s face. He can’t identify them; he doesn’t even try. Maybe it’s sadness, maybe surprise. Maybe it’s worry. He watches as Harry resignedly looks away.

“You don’t leave this bloody place,” Harry says quietly. His voice doesn’t carry the spite that Draco almost misses now.

“I work, you idiot. I spend a lot of time at your place, too.”

“Draco, I see you at my place less than twice a month.”

“Because it’s always full of your friends.”

“Not always,” Harry denies.

“Not worth the risk.”

Harry rests his head on Draco’s chest again. They are not compatible at all—Draco knows that. He’s just too hedonistic to let the chance of experiencing something semi-exciting go by, and Potter is too much of a stubborn idiot to simply give up trying. He always thinks he can fix everything.

“All right. I’ll go alone,” he says. Draco can sense how careful he is to not let the disappointment show in his tone of voice. 

“Great,” Draco says, because he can’t bring himself to reach the same level of being considerate.

Harry goes back to stroking, this time picking Draco’s arm to rub small circles on. He never touches his forearm, even though it’s Draco’s right hand—not the left one, even though his arm is covered with a long, long sleeve.

*

Harry is asleep, naked, and Draco is lying next to him, his button-up shirt still on. He can’t stop thinking about how pathetic he looks. His tiny little cock resting between his too-sharp hips, legs losing muscle after years of only ever circling between his flat, the Ministry, and the food market, covered in hair barely visible—Draco is to himself the antithesis of strength and manhood. He is the opposite of everything his father has ever wanted him to be.

He wishes he’d at least still have some pride or maybe just enough courage to not hide himself. Sometimes, he foolishly wishes he could be his younger self, sleeping in his underwear every night, not even a shadow of self-consciousness falling across his mind. He wishes he could roll up the sleeves of his robes in summer, let Harry undress him and suck his hard nipples during cold winter nights, take them to a lake and go skinny-dipping, just do anything to feel carefree again.

These days, he doesn’t abolish his clothing-regime even when he knows he’ll be alone. He doesn’t like looking at his scarred, scrawny body.

He doesn’t like Harry looking at his body either. He knew since their first date (if one can even call it such) that he would rather let Harry see his dick than his arms or chest. So, the first time they wanked each other, Draco had his shirt on. Then the second time, and third, and so on. 

By now, Harry knows exactly what he can and can’t do. He can’t touch Draco’s forearms, can’t grab him by his wrists. He can’t reach under the shirt to touch his skin. Harry has never questioned it—after all, he knows what Draco is hiding, even if he’s never fully seen it. 

Well, he sees some bits. He sees scars on Draco’s neck and jaw, and that’s more than enough. He tries not to look, though—Draco notices that. Harry glances and stares at his eyes, lips, cheekbones whenever they spend time together, but rarely below. 

And Draco appreciates it, even if he would never admit it out loud. At least one person acting respectfully makes him feel just a bit more comfortable existing in his own skin. He wouldn’t want to resort to wearing scarfs everyday to protect himself from snoopy gazes, especially if they were to come from someone he spends so much time with. 

He would look so ridiculous. 

He would look so _weak_ , and Malfoys don’t show weakness, not like this.

He sighs quietly and decides to get up and change into his sleep robe to feel at least a bit less silly. Still, he sneaks out of the room to do it because even though the chance of Harry waking up right now is small, and even though it’s dim, Draco isn’t going to risk him seeing anything.

His robe—a creamy shade of white—is on the back of his desk chair, so he grabs it and quietly goes to the bathroom. Before he closes the door, he glances at Harry once again, who is soundlessly sleeping. 

When he’s inside, he casts a quick Vapour Charm on the mirror—an old habit—so that it’s covered in a layer of condensation. Looking at himself is not a good idea, neither right now nor—honestly—ever. 

Without surfaces that could reflect his image, he closes his eyes and unbuttons his shirt. The act, after all these years passed, still feels almost reckless. Theoretically, it should be comforting to be able to change his clothes without having to overly pay attention to the surroundings, without the fear that someone could see his Dark Mark and discover his big, nasty secret. Practically, he hasn’t reached the stage yet when it all feels like the past, not the present. 

Maybe it has left some sort of permanent fear response in him, knowing that one moment of inattention could cost him not only his life, but also his parents’. He knew his Lord wouldn’t have had mercy for him.

He shivers. The war is over. It’s all over, yet he still thinks about it all the time.

He opens his eyes. It helps, sometimes, to let himself be grounded by the surroundings. His bathroom. Dark blue tiles on the walls, bathtub on cast iron legs. A small washbasin with the foggy mirror above it. Looking around helps, just like digging his toes into the fluffy carpet does.

After a moment of stilling himself, he’s ready to move on.

Allowing the shirt to fall from his shoulders, his eyes catch the scar on his forearm, white and faint. His eyes always seem to go there, even though he never wants them to. He’s still scared to touch it, scared that pressing his fingers to the skin there will summon _Him_. 

Well, he didn’t get sorted into Gryffindor for a good reason. He’s not brave. He doesn’t know what exactly induces his paranoia—he knows, however, that there’s only one way he can tame this feeling. He does the only thing he knows will feed the doubt and fear he still possesses and presses his fingers to the inside of his forearm, as hard as he can.

He closes his eyes. Nothing happens. Everything is quiet.

Only after a moment he dares to take a deep breath. Then, he grabs his robe from the hanger. He puts it on quickly and lets the light material fall, watching how it swishes and stills around his ankles.

Harry used to make fun of him for his clothing choices. ( _“Are you really wearing that to bed?”_ he said, laughing, and Draco only put his chin up higher. When Harry wouldn’t stop laughing, Draco said that he can sleep on the floor if he doesn’t like it.) 

Harry’s reaction was fair, to be honest. Draco only ever saw his grandparents wearing robes like these—Victorian, with lace accents and ruffled sleeves. Even his parents who respected tradition steered towards modern clothing, accepting that some things simply go out of fashion.

As Draco’s chest clutches painfully, he realises that maybe thinking about his parents still isn’t the best idea. Thinking about anything doesn’t seem like a good idea because his thoughts always go back to the same dark, disturbing places. 

He goes back to bed, leaving the mirror foggy.

*

When he wakes up, he can already smell food. Sausages and fried onions—Merlin, he hasn’t even known he was that hungry. 

He gets out of bed feeling—surprisingly—almost energised and goes to the kitchen barefoot, ignoring the cold emanating from the wooden tiles. 

Harry is by the stove, flipping the sausages with a flick of his wand. When he realises that Draco is in the room, he smiles at him. 

“I knew how to summon you!” He comes up to Draco and hugs him loosely. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” Polite, just like mother has taught him.

“Do you want some eggs, too?”

“No, thank you.” He clenches his fists and feels the nails digging into his skin. Maybe one day he’ll know how to act like a person and not like a tiny aristocrat.

He sits down at the table and waits for Harry to finish up frying. Plates and cutlery are already set, and they are all in the wrong order, but Draco won’t say it. He isn’t allowed to say it because it isn’t good manners. He’s only allowed to smirk knowingly at other guests when the host isn’t looking, but there are no other guests here. He closes his eyes.

“Sleepy?” Harry asks. Apparently he’s done cooking, and now he’s hovering over the table, putting the rest of the plates there.

Draco nods. It’s a small lie. In the end, it isn’t something that would ever matter.

*

Harry soon leaves for dinner with the Weasleys. He looks almost apologetic as he kisses Draco goodbye.

He visits him in the evening, briefly, just to bring him some of the leftovers.

Bringing Draco dinner is something Harry does often. He started doing it after the first time he spent the night at Draco’s place. In the morning, he went to the fridge only to realise it was almost empty.

Then, Draco had to explain to him that going out to buy food was _incredibly exhausting_ , because he needed to keep his guard up the entire time in order to predict possible attacks. Harry looked so dumbfounded—Draco will never forget that expression. 

He asked if anyone had ever actually attacked him—face red and all—to which Draco only replied with a laughter.

*

“Malfoy,” the voice above him says, the voice that clearly belongs to Ronald Weasley, though Draco still tries not to think about it every time they have to interact.

He looks up at the tall figure standing in front of him and nods, to which Weasley starts to talk.

“We have a case of Miranda Barkley, 67, poisoned at the wedding of her daughter. She survived, but we have a problem with identifying the potion and the person behind it.”

Draco tries hard to not roll his eyes. “Not family drama again.”

Weasley smiles at him. “Have fun with the testimonies,” he says and throws a pile of files onto Draco’s desk. 

Weasley isn’t even out of the room when Harry enters Draco’s office.

“I’m busy,” Draco says and pulls the documents closer.

“Wanna have lunch with me?” 

Draco makes a small pause before he asks, “With you or with you and your friends?”

“Just us two,” Harry says. “Though you’re also my friend, Draco.”

Draco feels something pleasant but scary spreading inside his chest. “Am I?”

“Yeah.”

The feeling in his chest doesn’t disappear, so he decides to let himself indulge in it. “All right,” he agrees. “Just give me an hour.”

*

Draco doesn’t generally eat at the Ministry cafeteria, so it’s no wonder he gets weird looks as he walks towards the food station alongside Harry. Some people really don’t know how to hide their emotions, and Draco finds consolation in knowing that he can. 

Well, maybe it could be more accurately described as a feeling of superiority. Not even the most powerful wizards could read his mind, so now he can go through any task with a straight face. He can buy his food ignoring all the glares, can walk straight to a free table in the middle of the room with Harry by his side, as if it’s something that has happened hundreds of times before, as if it’s a part of their routine.

People know that he and Harry are together, but they don’t know many details. They know that they work together, but because Harry and Draco try to act in a professional manner, not much can be drawn from their at-work interactions. They also don’t make any public appearances together, so today is, in a way, the first time they let themselves be seen by others for what they are.

Harry smiles at Draco from across the table. “Fish is good.” He points at his plate with his fork.

“I’m glad.”

“I didn’t think you would do it.” When Draco looks up, he sees that Harry’s eyes are shining with excitement. 

“You have a lot to learn about me, then.”

Harry leans back with a smile.

*

“I've missed you,” Harry says, his arms around Draco’s stomach, his chin on Draco’s shoulder.

“Hasn’t been long.”

“It has.” 

Draco turns around to look at Harry, but he doesn’t even get the chance because Harry is already kissing him hungrily.

Draco tries to bring his tired limbs to cooperate, buries one hand in Harry’s hair even though it takes a lot of effort to hold it up, _(he’s so tired)_ , stands even though all he wants to do is collapse onto the couch.

When they part, Draco sees the familiar desperation in Harry’s expression, in the way he glances from Draco’s lips to his eyes, over and over again. He knows it would be best to stop it now.

He puts a hand flat on Harry’s chest and gently pushes him away without looking him in the face.

Harry grabs his hand with both of his. “What do you want to do?”

Draco shrugs. He doesn’t really care about anything at the moment.

Harry encircles him and tugs at his hand, leading him toward the couch. Draco wordlessly follows. 

He also doesn’t object when Harry wants him to lay down on top of him. Positioning himself is a bit awkward, but when he finally rests on top of Harry’s body, he feels his muscles relax in a way they haven’t in a while.

“Good?” Harry whispers, and this time it’s him burying his hand in Draco’s hair, slowly massaging his scalp.

Draco only hums. Within a few minutes, he’s asleep.

*

The heat hits him in the face as if someone’s just opened an oven right in front of him. The orange light surrounds him, and the brightness of it hurts his eyes to the point he can barely keep them open, but the heat is so much worse. 

He looks down, not sure if he’s already burning or not but knowing that the flames will engulf him soon enough. He wants to scream for help but no sound comes out—his mouth only releases black puffs of smoke. He’s doomed. Absolutely terrified, he’s trying to take a step forward, but something doesn’t let him move. Something is holding him back, and soon he realises that he’s clinging to a body...

He wakes up with a start. The movement jerks Harry awake, too, but Draco couldn’t care less about it. He only cares about the heat that emanates from Harry, and how he needs to—immediately—get away from it. He slides to the floor and gasps for breath desperately, but it’s too hot, and dark smoke is now all around him.

“Draco?”

One click and the lights are on. It’s like resurfacing from deep waters after almost drowning—seeing the sky and breathing the air as if for the first time ever.

Except, the situation he’s in is much more mundane. He’s at his flat, and Harry is inching towards him. Draco can hear his soft footsteps, can see his brown trousers and dark socks as he steps closer.

“Open—” he pants. “Open the window.”

“What?” Harry asks, audibly confused.

Something rises within Draco’s chest—anger or maybe simply desperation. He doesn’t answer, instead he clenches his fists and continues breathing deeply, trying to calm himself down. Now that he’s more aware of his surroundings, he can also feel his robes clinging to his sweaty body. If it wasn’t for Harry being around, he’d take them off. This thought makes him even more angry.

“Right,” Harry says, as if only now coming to his senses. Draco isn’t looking at him, but soon he can hear the sound of the window opening, and then he feels the chill night breeze surrounding him.

“Draco,” Harry repeats softly. 

Draco exhales deeply once more and mutters, “Yeah.” 

He doesn’t look up when he hears Harry moving towards him; he only sees him when Harry sits down on the floor in front of him.

“Are you all right?” Harry asks.

“Yeah.”

Harry reaches out to touch Draco’s shoulder, but Draco immediately jumps back. 

“Sorry!” Harry quickly apologizes and retreats his arm. “Sorry, that was stupid.”

Well, there it goes, him being _all right_. Draco hangs his head even lower; he’s so tired of everything. So tired of pretending, so tired of collecting himself together after every time he fails, after every time he presents his weaknesses to the world and makes some embarrassing show of himself. 

He breathes, and breathes, and breathes—for what feels like eternity, but time doesn’t matter. He knows that it’s the quickest way to help himself, and he’d rather collect himself as soon as he can in front of Harry. 

When he eventually looks up, already much calmer, Harry’s observing him. 

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep on the couch.”

Harry nods. 

Draco gets up. Harry follows suit, this time without trying to help him, without touching him. He keeps his distance. 

When Draco’s sure that his legs are steady, he starts walking towards the bedroom but stops after a few steps. “Do you mind if I take the bed?”

“No. Of course not.”

It should be enough, but Draco can’t stop himself from looking at Harry and then at the couch.

“You can go to your flat,” Draco says, but it sounds awful, so he adds, “if you want.” 

Harry looks surprised. “Do you want me to?” he asks slowly.

Draco doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about Harry, on a broom, in the burning Room of Requirements. He remembers Harry trying to pull him onto that broom, remembers his own sweaty hands sliding out of his grip. He remembers clinging to Harry’s middle so tightly, so desperately. The memory alone is almost enough to make him suffocate again.

“You can go, or you can stay. I don’t care,” he says.

“I’ll stay,” Harry says. “I’ll be right here.” He points at the couch. His hand doesn’t even go back to its previous position before Draco is out of the room.

He goes straight to the bedroom to grab his sleep robe and then follows to the bathroom. His hands fumble with the buttons of the robe he’s wearing on the way there, but only when he locks himself in the familiar room with blue tiles and foggy mirror, he takes it off fully.

Only when his naked back touches the cold wall, he starts to feel some kind of peace. 

*

That night, Draco doesn’t sleep well. Seeing that the other side of the bed is empty and knowing that Harry is right in the next room unsettles him, even though that was exactly his wish. He can’t fall asleep, scared of nightmares that possibly await him, regretting that he doesn’t have any Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Merlin, sometimes he could really use leaving the house more often. Going to St. Mungo’s and asking for a prescription could turn out to be problematic for more than one reason, but maybe he’d manage to get the ingredients in Knockturn Alley and brew it himself.

He also knows that Harry has some at his place, so maybe he could go there and steal just a bit…

He bites his lip, annoyed at the mere thought. That’s who he is—still a coward at twenty-six. Wanting to sneak into his boyfriend’s bathroom to steal things from him instead of getting them himself. He’s so pathetic.

_So weak._

He remembers the times when he could get anything he wanted just by showing his left arm to the not-so-innocent sellers. Now the mark on his skin provides him with no power. 

Well, maybe it never really did.

Under the covers, he rolls up the sleeve and touches the raised edges of the scar he knows will never disappear.

*

When he falls asleep, his dreams are vivid like fire. He doesn’t remember them in the morning but has a vague sense they were violent.

*

He’s crouched in front of the couch, watching a slight frown on Harry’s face. He wonders if it’s because of yesterday, if it’s because of him. 

Sometimes, Harry looks relaxed while he sleeps, but not today.

Draco reaches out and gently touches Harry’s shoulder. The gesture wakes him up almost immediately. He looks straight at Draco in a moment of sleepy confusion.

“Hello,” Draco says and then takes Harry’s glasses from the coffee table and gently puts them onto his nose.

He’s already retrieving his hands when Harry grabs one and kisses his knuckles. “You didn’t sleep well. Am I right?” he mutters. Draco’s skin muffles the sound.

“Had some strange dreams.”

“Nightmares?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry nods and doesn’t press the subject.

*

Draco has a complicated relationship with his job at the Ministry of Magic. It’s well-paid, sometimes not completely boring, and he’s well aware he’s incredibly lucky to have gotten it in the first place. On the other hand, it makes him feel claustrophobic, to work surrounded by all those people he’s known since school or even longer, all those people who know exactly what he was up to during the war. 

Those are the people who either don’t look him in the eye, presumably scared that he still poses a serious danger to society, or who look at him with so much hatred and disgust that Draco needs to summon all his willpower to not curl in on himself.

Then, there is the third category, consisting mostly of people who have no connections to him or his family. They look at him with a hint of suspicion, as if he’s a strange animal that they’ve never seen before, captured in a cage he doesn’t belong in. Alternatively, they eye him with gentle curiosity, as if kindly wondering who has let him in here.

Mrs Clance, the librarian, definitely belongs to the third category.

The Ministry’s Library of the Dark Arts is a huge room full of mostly very old books, many confiscated from dead and captured Death Eaters after the end of the Second Wizarding War. Only certain people have access to the library, and Draco is one of them.

He makes his way there from his office at a pace so fast his robes flap behind him furiously with every step. He passes a few people in the hall, mentally assigning them into categories. Unsurprisingly, most of them fit into the third. They don’t don’t pay attention to Draco. Only one person quickly turns around to gaze with fake interest at the door leading to an unused office when they see Draco coming out the corner—they clearly try to avoid him. Overall, it’s a lucky day.

At the library door, he shows his identification card to the guard and enters the room. He greets the librarian, and she answers with a nod.

Always the same thing, as if he keeps reliving a single day.

Even though Draco has been working in the Ministry for a few years now, doing his duty in an exemplary manner, there are plenty of people who still don’t trust him and who’d rather not see him here. Draco can’t blame them. He tries to get out of their way whenever he can, but sometimes it’s not possible. The poor librarian has to endure seeing him most days. Her expression now is as acerbic as on Draco’s first day of work.

For the sake of both of them, he doesn’t interact with her unless it’s necessary.

Following that rule, he goes straight to the potions section, still thinking where he should start. Miranda Barkley, poisoned by an unknown substance. He has the files with him that include testimonies, the report from St Mungo’s, and results of the medical tests, so when he’s in the right section, he stops and looks over them again. 

All the evidence points to a potion consisting of Horned Serpent’s fangs or horns, kelp, peppermint, Billywig, stinging nettle, and at least one more substance that hasn’t left any traces by the point of examination.

He glares at the shelves. The easiest way would be to start by finding any information about the Horned Serpent, as it’s the most distinct ingredient of all. It’s been quite a long time since he needed to find any information about snakes, so he simply crouches next to the appropriate section and glances at the titles. 

It’s then that he notices a familiar book at the very bottom shelf. _The Use of Dragon Blood in Dark Magic Potions_. It’s incorrectly placed, and Draco feels a wave of irritation welling up in him. How is he supposed to find anything here if the books are scattered all over the place? 

He reaches out with the intent to grab the book and carry it to the section it belongs to, but when his fingers are mere inches from the hardback, he stops.

His family had this book at home. It’s quite probable that what’s in front of him is the exact same exemplar his father used to hold in his hands.

His father used to be fascinated with the magical properties of dragons. When Draco was young, he used to buy him children books about different varieties of dragons and read them to him before bed. He would point at the fiercest looking one, at the biggest one, at the one exhaling the greatest amount of fire, and say: _this is going to be you when you grow up, Draco_. 

Then, there were books he wasn’t allowed to read.

Draco remembers this book specifically, remembers the red cover and frail, yellow pages. He remembers his father sitting in his reading chair with this book in his lap. He remembers how he—being too young to understand the gravity of his action—reached his fingers to touch the fire-breathing dragon on one of the pages, wanting to check if the flame would be hot. _Don’t touch it, Draco_ , his father said, yanking his hand away. 

Draco, still crouched, with his arm extended stupidly, makes one more attempt at grabbing the book.

_Don’t touch it, Draco._

“Malfoy,” a voice sounds behind him, and Draco almost loses his balance and falls. 

He quickly gets onto his feet, his heart still beating wildly in his chest from being startled, and looks at the person behind him.

“Weasley.”

“Sorry I’m interrupting,” he says. “I’m about to go home and was told you were here.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking incredibly awkward and out of place. 

“Yes. I’m here.” Draco shifts his weight to the other foot, trying to stop himself from commenting on Weasley’s weird behaviour.

“I’m just here to... Well, my mother would like you to come for dinner on Sunday. Not this one, the next one.”

“Why are you telling me that?” Draco blurts out before he can stop himself. “I mean, you and Harry work together, and me and Harry—”

“Well, mum thinks he doesn’t tell you about those invitations.”

Draco carefully adjusts his tone of voice to a polite, official one. “Oh, no, he does. I did receive a few, and you can tell your mother that I appreciate them. Unfortunately, I’m pretty busy these days, but I’ll make sure to send her some cake as a thank you.”

Weasley makes a face, as if not sure whether he should take the cake offer as an insult or not. “Look. I know my mother, and one thing I can tell you is that she is bloody stubborn. Next week everyone’s busy, so you have a rare chance to visit when almost no one’s home. Unless that house is something that still disgusts you, then just tell me, and I’ll let my mother know that you’ll never put your foot there.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say. They stare at each other for a moment, until Weasley cringes and turns around with the intention to leave.

“It doesn’t,” Draco says.

“What?” Weasley turns around once again to look at him.

“Your house.” Draco exhales deeply. “It doesn’t disgust me.”

*

“Did you tell him to do that?” Draco asks after he retells what happened to Harry.

“Did I tell him to do what?”

“Did you tell him to go and invite me for that dinner because you thought I would have a harder time explaining myself to him?”

Harry furrows his brows. “Draco, of course not. I wouldn’t try to manipulate you like that.”

“You were unhappy that I didn’t want to go to their dinners.”

“Maybe,” Harry hesitates, “but I did not tell Ron to do anything, okay?”

Draco tries to read Harry’s face. Is his surprise just an act?

“You don’t believe me,” Harry says before Draco has a chance to come to any conclusion.

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

They stand in the middle of the living room, a safe distance from each other. Draco could take a step forward or extend his arm, and it wouldn’t change much—they would still be far from one another, like ships at a sea.

It’s a perfect distance to cast a spell, though—short enough for it to hit quickly, short enough to drastically reduce the other person’s ability to defend themselves. 

Draco is surprised that this thought even crosses his mind.

“Great.” Harry’s face and voice are marked with anger. “Well, let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”

He turns around, crosses the room and leaves. 

A few seconds pass, and Draco starts to wonder if Harry has changed his mind, if he will eventually come back to talk.

Nothing like this happens. Instead, the sound of the front door being slammed shut makes Draco jump.

*

The next day, Harry knocks on his door.

“I’m sorry,” he utters before he even says hello.

Draco eyes him up and down. Harry looks like he didn’t sleep well last night. His hair is more ruffled than usual, and his clothes are as atrocious as ever. In his right hand, he holds a paper bag, maybe a gift. 

Draco tilts his head and weighs his options. 

“I’ll forgive you if you suck me off,” he proposes.

Harry makes a face and steps inside, hurriedly closing the door behind himself. “Your neighbours are going to hate you,” he says.

“My neighbours are old. They have bad hearing.”

Harry makes another face, and Draco laughs. 

“Did you bring something for me?” he asks as Harry takes off his shoes.

“I thought we could bake a cake.”

“A cake?”

“Well, I planned to bake one and bring it here, but then I changed my mind because I thought it would be better to come here as soon as I was free.”

Draco tries to mask his surprise. “All right, let’s bake a cake.”

Harry goes to the kitchen with his bag, and Draco quietly follows him. He watches as Harry unpacks all the ingredients onto the counter and then stares at them, as if not knowing what to do next.

“What are we baking?” Draco asks, stepping closer.

“A sponge cake. Uhm, I do the butter, and you do the eggs.” He pushes the egg box and a bowl towards Draco.

Draco doesn’t really know what to do with that. He takes one egg and turns it in his hand pointlessly.

Harry realises his mistake quickly. “Oh, have you never—? Do you know how to crack an egg?”

Draco shakes his head, and Harry smiles at him. 

“It’s not that hard after some practice. You need a sharp edge, like the edge of a bowl. If your counter has square edges, you can do it there. I prefer to do it this way.”

Harry pulls up the sleeves of his robe. His forearms are hairy and veiny; they look strong in a way Draco’s arms will never even get close to resemble. 

“You need just the right amount of force to crack the shell and not completely smash it.”

When Harry reaches for the egg, the thin lines of scar tissue shine on the back of his right hand, and it’s all Draco can focus on. It feels wrong to be looking at it—nevertheless, Draco can’t bring himself to look away.

But Harry’s hands move quickly, and soon he cracks the egg on the edge of the counter and empties the insides into the bowl, and the whole thing is over.

“Now, you try it.” He hands Draco another egg that he carefully takes.

Draco weighs it in his hand, trying to figure out how hard he needs to hit it. As it turns out, it’s all for nothing. He cracks it way too hard, and the entire content of the egg lands where it’s not supposed to land—half on the counter and half on the floor.

“Stupid thing,” Draco mutters under his breath. “There must be some sort of spell for that.”

“Probably.” Harry cleans up the mess with a wave of his wand. “Do you want me to do it?”

Draco sighs. “Let me try one more time.”

*

Baking doesn’t exactly turn out to be a success. Draco wastes a couple more eggs by either completely smashing them or getting too many shells into the bowl. The sponge comes out of the oven a bit too dry, and the cream they make is too runny, so that the assembled cake looks like a mess.

“It wasn’t my best idea,” Harry admits, looking at the deformed product of their labour with a tinge of sadness.

Draco has his mouth full of cake, so he only shrugs. 

*

It’s in the evening when the feeling of inadequacy comes back, or maybe it never really leaves. 

Harry’s stretched out on the bed, naked, as always, and Draco is sitting on top of him, half-naked, as always, and it shouldn’t be the beginning of a problem, really—in fact, they’re both horny and hard, so it seems like a good thing. 

That is, it seems like a good thing until Harry raises his arm to push his hair all the way back, exposing his forehead and the scar that Draco—once again—has trouble to ignore. This time, however, Draco’s staring doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Is something wrong?” Harry asks, rubbing the skin above his right eye and looking at Draco suspiciously.

“No. No, nothing’s wrong. I’m sorry,” Draco says, even though he knows it’s a lie. 

Well, there’s nothing wrong with the scar–it looks the same as always. There are no changes in colour or shape. It’s the same old silvery lightning bolt that Draco is so familiar with, but today—for some reason—he can’t stand having it in his line of sight, so he leans forward and pulls Harry’s hair back onto his forehead. 

Harry opens his mouth, as if wanting to say something, but then decides against it.

“It’s distracting,” Draco says and tries to pretend he doesn’t see the hurt on Harry’s face.

It only gets worse from there. Draco can’t keep looking at Harry. He leans in for kisses with his eyes closed which results in them bumping their noses or him hitting Harry’s glasses—generally him not being able to find Harry’s mouth at all. 

He also can’t stand looking at Harry’s chest because it reminds him that his own chest is covered. He doesn’t know why it matters today, as it has been a long time since it used to matter, but he doesn’t want to think about it now. All he wants is to get off.

Eventually, he opts for simply sucking Harry off, but even then weird thoughts clog up his mind. 

He thinks about how he wants to shed his skin and be pure. 

He swallows Harry’s come because it’s something that comes from within him, because it is protectively hidden behind his skin and flesh, not tainted by the human gaze, because it is pure.

His train of thoughts breaks when he’s too horny to think, and then he’s too tired, too drowsy to think, and then he falls asleep, sure that in the morning he will no longer remember if he was onto something.

*

It’s like the feeling of dread never leaves him. He walks through the halls and thinks— _what if?_ He brushes his teeth and thinks— _what if the Dark Lord will call me in, now?_ He can’t sleep because he’s terrified that he’ll wake up with the burning in his arm that could only mean one thing—the Dark Lord will command him to do yet another unforgivable thing. 

Draco lives constantly anticipating something horrible. Right now, as he’s walking through the hall to his bedroom, he looks out for any signs of danger. Who knows what could happen? With the Dark Lord residing here, anything is possible. Maybe the Dark Lord is right around the corner, or maybe at this very moment he’s sitting on Draco’s bed, patiently waiting for his arrival.

Draco shakes his head. _Ridiculous. His thoughts are ridiculous._

When he reaches his bedroom, he’s still cautious but less paranoid. Quietly, he opens the door and sees that the room is empty.

Only a few seconds pass, and his left forearm starts to burn. He bends forward, trying to not cry out from pain. His heartbeat immediately goes up because he’s panicking. He knows that he has to be calm, that he can’t let his fear run free, but he has no idea how to achieve that. 

When he thinks he has adjusted to the pain well enough, he straightens up and starts walking in circles, trying to somehow mentally prepare himself for the meeting, to clear his head. Every second of delay means that he’s making the risk of enraging the Dark Lord higher, but he’s not ready. He can’t face Him. He’s not ready. 

“Hey. Hey,” a voice calls to him, and Draco can’t place it. It seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere; maybe it’s a voice inside his head; maybe it’s the Dark Lord speaking directly to him.

This thought terrifies him so much that his presence seems to switch to another dimension. At first he thinks that he fainted and now is gaining consciousness because he’s in a vertical position, and he definitely wasn’t in a vertical position when the Dark Lord summoned him through the Dark Mark. Then, he sees Harry leaning over him, and he realises that he’s not at the Manor—he was dreaming.

Yet, the nightmare somehow isn’t over—his arm is still burning. He sits up abruptly, clutching at it, and feels all the blood rushing out of his head, making him dizzy.

“He’s back,” he utters, thinking he’s about to throw up. His heart’s still thumping in his chest so wildly it feels like it will soon break his ribs.

“It was a nightmare,” Harry says with confidence. “Draco, it’s all right.”

Draco shakes his head violently and pulls up his left sleeve. 

“Lumos,” he chokes out. “Lumos. Lumos.” 

He knows how to use this spell wandlessly, but it doesn’t work because he’s in too much distress. He’s so panicked he’s barely able to pronounce a single word, let alone concentrate. 

Harry helps him out, thankfully, and when the room is lit, Draco can see that his Dark Mark is as faint as always. He stares at it helplessly. He’s too scared to touch it.

When he brings his gaze back to Harry, he realises that Harry isn’t looking at him—he’s staring at the bedsheets on the other side of the bed. Draco is both relieved and terrified at this sight. He wants to beg for comfort as much as he wants to yell at Harry to go.

He needs to think. He needs to calm down and then think, so first he tries to breathe more deeply and evenly to help his nausea and to bring his heart rate back to normal, but it’s hard when his arm is still burning. 

It all doesn’t make sense. The Dark Lord is dead. Is it possible that he found the secret to ultimate immortality? Or is Draco still inside the dream, and none of this is real? 

He looks at Harry again. Harry looks completely real. His messy hair falls onto his forehead, and a couple of loose strands stick out in various directions. His eyelids are puffy from sleep, but his eyes are open wide, alert, like he’s ready to face any danger.

“It’s faint, but it hurts,” Draco says, his voice still shaking. He feels like a child, woken up at night because of a nightmare, complaining about pain, complaining about being scared of something he knows should be impossible. 

“Do you want me to have a look?” Harry asks quietly.

Draco doesn’t trust his own senses and judgement, so he answers, “Yes.”

Harry shifts closer, and Draco does everything in his power to not jump back or flinch. His arm is trembling, but he’s able to hold it out.

“You’re right, it’s completely faint. It used to be black, right?”

“Yes.”

Harry leans forward a little more. “I don’t know how it used to look before, but there’s no sign of black ink. I see nothing abnormal, no skin irritation. It just looks like a scar.” He looks up. “Does it still hurt?”

Draco nods. “Do you think He’s back?”

Harry bites his lip before he answers. “I don’t think so. He’s gone. He’s really gone. There must be some other explanation.”

Draco glances at his forearm again. It still looks exactly the same.

“I have no idea why it would hurt. Maybe you should tell someone about it,” Harry continues. 

Draco nods. He doesn’t trust his voice.

Harry slowly reaches out and takes his hand. “Do you think we should notify someone now?”

Draco shakes his head. He can’t imagine talking with people in a state like this—so shaken, so pathetic, so _weak_.

“I’m sure that if anyone else experiences that, we will know by tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Draco interrupts him.

Harry falls quiet. Then, he strokes the back of Draco’s hand. “How about Dreamless Sleep? How does that sound?”

Draco nods.

“Do you have some?”

Draco shakes his head.

“I have some at home. I’ll go grab it. I’ll be right back.”

Draco tightens his grip around Harry’s hand. “Not yet.”

“All right. Not yet.”

Draco can’t bring himself to look into Harry’s eyes, but he holds onto his hand as if it’s a lifeline. 

*

Harry was supposed to be at work at 6 a.m. then next day, but when Draco wakes up, he’s still in the bed right next to him.

“Good morning,” he mutters. 

It’s completely bright outside. The sunlight illuminates the room, making the worry on Harry’s face seem even more pronounced. 

Draco’s arm no longer hurts, but he’s still scared it will. He’s terrified that if he pulls up his sleeve, the Dark Mark will look the same it did ten years ago.

He breathes through his nose, trying to calm himself. It will not help if he just starts to panic.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Almost nine.”

“You could’ve gone to work, you know. You didn’t have to stay here.”

“I wanted to stay here.” Harry reaches out to grab Draco’s hand. “How are you?”

Draco hesitates for only a second. “Good.”

“How’s your arm? Did it stop hurting?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“Draco, don’t do this.”

Draco closes his eyes. His chest feels funny, and he can’t really assign the sensation to any concrete category.

“What do you mean?” he asks with his eyes still closed. He can’t bring himself to open them and look at Harry.

“You’re closing yourself up. Talk with me, please.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Your Dark Mark is hurting.”

“It isn’t.”

“It did last night.”

“Maybe it didn’t.”

“You told me it did.”

“And you told me that You-Know-Who is dead, and that it’s impossible—”

“I didn’t tell you that it’s impossible! I told you there must be some other explanation for why you’re feeling pain.” 

“I’m not feeling pain.”

Harry sighs. “All right. We don’t have to talk about it.” 

Draco hears some commotion, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Harry getting off the bed. He stands up, turns around and looks at Draco with what Draco assumes is strenuously mustered neutrality.

“Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

*

After breakfast, Draco goes for a walk. He doesn’t do it often, but he feels like he needs it today. He needs to clear his head.

It’s a good thing he doesn’t have work today—he knows he couldn’t focus anyway. His mind is full of contradicting thoughts, a mess of memories and possible future scenarios. What if the Dark Lord is back? What if Draco is losing his mind? Is it possible that someone—somehow—possessed the Dark Marks on Death Eaters’ bodies and is now trying to control them? Draco can’t imagine getting dragged into this same thing again, especially now when he thinks he has his life in relative order.

Maybe, under closer inspection, he has less control over his life than he thinks he does. He still has to go to regular appointments to prove that he doesn’t slip back to his old habits and beliefs and to ensure that he has the tools to cope with the challenges that come with living as a resocialised individual. Those appointments have turned out to be a great source of support for him, but they were never his choice.

He can’t leave the country. He got his job because the Ministry deemed his knowledge useful, and because his counselor stated that the danger of him getting back on the path of the Dark Magic was minimal. 

He still can’t think about his father without feeling deep sadness or anger. He still doesn’t know how to talk with his mother. Maybe he doesn’t know how to talk with anyone. Clearly, talking with Harry hasn’t been going great lately.

Draco tries to take control over his life whenever he can. He does whatever is best for him. He protects himself in ways his parents didn’t protect him. He tries to minimise the discomfort he feels by avoiding most people, by covering himself up, creating barriers and putting up walls.

Maybe he has lost himself in it all.

Maybe he never really knew who he was in the first place.

*

When he gets back to his flat, he hugs Harry closely. He lets himself feel his warmth. He lets himself be comforted by it.

“I’ll owl Angelique to make an appointment, but I want to drop this subject for now,” he says, his arms still tight around Harry.

“All right.”

“Also, I told Weasley that I will come to their dinner next week. Forgot to tell you.”

Harry doesn’t say anything. Even though Draco can’t see his face, he’s sure that Harry is smiling.

*

Draco starts taking the Dreamless Sleep Potion every day.

“Don’t,” Harry says on maybe the seventh or eighth night. He gently releases the flask from Draco’s grip and sets it on the bedside table. “You’re going to get addicted.”

Draco finds himself unable to protest. Somehow, his brain twists Harry’s words. He hears— _I want you to dream about Him. I want you to suffer._

“I don’t want to dream about him,” he says out loud. 

Harry shifts closer. “Draco, I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Draco shakes his head. “My arm—” 

“Does it hurt?” The worry seeps through Harry’s voice.

“No. But it could start at any moment.”

“Did it hurt you again?” 

“No, and don’t tell me that that one time didn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you that.” Harry’s voice shifts to offence at the unjust accusation.

Draco almost wants to get up and leave, even though it’s his flat, even though it’s his bed, even though he knows it would be unreasonable. Maybe it would even be _weak_ , to get up and run, to flee.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, this time much softer. “I know it’s hard.” 

“Yeah,” Draco answers. 

Harry looks at him as if he expects to hear something more.

*

Angelique is at a conference in France, and Draco needs to wait more than a week for an appointment. That’s fine. He had decided to notify the Ministry about the pain in his arm, and doing it was _significantly less fine_ , but he survived it. The biggest problem is that it has brought back a bunch of unpleasant memories that now clog up his mind.

He’s sitting at the desk in his office, staring at the files he’s supposed to study, not able to read more than a few sentences at a time. Instead, he thinks back to the time of his arrest.

After the war, everyone wanted to get the trials over with as fast as possible. The law was still deeply flawed, but apparently there was also no time to change it. People wanted _justice_ without really caring what it meant _exactly_. They wanted the bad to be punished and the good to thrive.

It was simple.

Draco doesn’t remember much of the few months he spent in prison. Every day seemed exactly the same, so the time kept merging into one big blur. The only moments that stood out were his interrogations and his hearing. 

He remembers hours and hours of answering questions. When did he become a Death Eater? How did he serve Voldemort? Did he use any Unforgivable Curses? How many people did he torture? Who did he keep under the Imperius Curse, when, and for how long? 

He had to recall every crime he committed or witnessed and then describe it in detail. He had to talk about the involvement of his parents in those crimes. He had to re-imagine every detail of the Battle of Hogwarts, his every meeting with the Dark Lord, the day he almost killed Dumbledore. 

It was fair to be asked those questions. Even back then, terrified that he could spend the rest of his life imprisoned, Draco knew that lying wouldn’t take him far. Deciding to not talk also wouldn’t be the best choice—Draco had witnessed many more crimes than he himself had committed, so he had a unique chance to show the Ministry that he was cooperating, that he had changed. He hoped that it would lower his sentence, and the fact that he was exposing to the fullest the true, disgusting nature of people he’d grown to deeply hate was an added bonus.

There were, however, a few times when Draco doubted if the choice he’d made was right.

There was the time when, at the start of one of his first interrogations, three Ministry officials came into the white-walled room, one of them holding a camera. Perhaps it’s the thing Draco remembers most vividly from his prison time—them yanking his sleeve up and taking pictures of his Dark Mark, pressing their hands to it. They asked about the scars on his face and neck and didn’t believe him when he said it was Harry Potter’s botched attempt to kill him from the time they were in school. They requested that Draco take off his robe. Then, they were taking pictures of his chest, neck, and face from different angles, commanding him to turn around, to put his arms up so that they could have a better look at his scarred sides. It all felt so incredibly long, almost never-ending.

It was scary, but on top of inducing fear it was also humiliating. There was something in that moment that made him feel less human, and Draco didn’t understand that. These people hadn’t done anything horribly bad to him. They hadn't caused any physical harm, hadn’t threatened him. Yet, when he was putting his robe back on, his fingers were shaking, and when he was back in his cell, alone, he felt dirty. 

So many people could look at him now, at the pictures of his body. He would never know who has seen the scars on his chest or the Dark Mark on his arm; he was stripped of all the control of the situation. Someone could hang those pictures in their office or even in their bedroom if they were feeling particularly insane. Someone could sell those photographs to a newspaper. The idea was almost nauseating. 

Draco didn’t know why he cared so much—it was all simply the evidence of either the things he did or the things that were done to him. All were either already widely known or would become common knowledge soon, regardless of whether the pictures would appear as an attachment to the news.

But perhaps that was the moment of a horrible realisation for Draco—his whole life story could be told from reading the lines on his skin. There was no escape from who he was, and there never would be.

*

Angelique’s office is distinctly cosy. Everything is in blues and beiges, the curtains are light and move with the slightest windblow, and the armchair Draco’s sitting on is plush, soft to the touch. It’s the exact kind of decor his parents would turn their noses at. It’s not that Draco particularly cares about what they think—it’s just a habit to take their opinions into consideration, for the smallest of moments before Draco remembers that it all doesn’t matter. Maybe he’s a sponge that has soaked in all of his parents’ thoughts and now needs to slowly release them. Maybe one day he’ll get rid of them all.

“So, Draco.” Angelique clasps her hands and puts them on her knee. Draco can’t help but compare her hands to Harry’s hands. Hers are slimmer. She’s wearing two rings on her left hand. The brown skin of her palms doesn’t look scarred. “You requested an appointment.”

“Yes.”

She looks at him patiently, and after a moment of getting no further reaction, asks, “How are you feeling?”

“All right.”

“Identify your emotions. We’ve worked on this. What are you really feeling?”

Draco looks at the row of bookshelves behind Angelique, at neatly arranged shelves of books and binders. “I’m anxious.”

“Do you know why you’re anxious?”

“I worry you’re going to think I’m losing my mind.”

“Losing one’s mind isn’t exactly… a scientific term.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Angelique smiles gently. “I’d still like you to put it in a different way.”

It turns out to be surprisingly hard to find other words to express himself. “I worry you might think I’m lying or simply imagining things.”

“What do you mean by ‘imagining things’?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs and looks as far away from her as he can. He decides to get straight to the point now instead of postponing this conversation. “It happened only once. I had a nightmare in which I was at home—previous home, I mean, the one where I grew up—and it was during the war, and I felt a burning in my left arm. When I woke up, I could still feel the pain. It only subsided after… maybe half an hour? It fully disappeared in the morning.”

Draco can see out of the corner of his eye how Angelique shifts in her chair.

“Did anything like this happen to you after Voldemort’s death, other than this one time?”

Draco shudders at the name and closes his eyes briefly. “No. Never. Why would it ever happen? He’s dead.” He spits the last sentence angrily. “I went to the Ministry last week, and they performed the spells to check if my Mark shows any signs of activity.” He finally looks back at her. “It’s inactive. I guess we can all sleep peacefully.”

“It was a responsible thing to do, to notify the Ministry.”

Draco feels how his lips purse instinctively before he makes an effort to stop it. “I’m trying to be responsible.”

“I know.” She studies him for a moment before continuing. “What distresses you the most about this situation?”

“Everything, Angelique. I don’t know why it happened. How is that even possible? Is it my brain playing tricks on me?”

She considers it. “Maybe.”

“I was worried about that. I was worried you would tell me it’s all in my head.”

“Draco, it’s not like that. That’s not what I meant. If you’re feeling pain, it’s not fair to say that you’re imagining it. That experience is real.”

“But there’s no reason for me to feel the pain.”

“The way our bodies work sometimes doesn’t make sense.”

Draco laughs bitterly.

“I worry I don’t have any clear answers for you, Draco. I don’t know why you were feeling pain. I’ll refer you to a Healer to check your arm for any nerve damage.” She takes a notebook from the side table and scribbles something down in it. “Yes, we’ll start with that.”

“Do you think it’s likely to be nerve damage?”

“I think it’s possible,” she answers diplomatically. “It could also be a reaction to trauma.”

“You mean—my trauma from ten years ago?” he asks dryly. 

“You’re being impatient, Draco. Healing is a process.”

“Something like this has never happened to me. Right now I’m going backwards.”

She shakes her head. “It’s possible that you may have experienced something we call a pain flashback. The nightmare triggered you, and when you woke up, your nervous system was stuck in re-living the time when your Dark Mark was still active.”  
  
“But I’ve had nightmares before,” Draco interrupts impatiently. “I’ve had many nightmares over the years.”

“Have you ever had a nightmare in which Voldemort tried to summon you using your Mark?”

Draco falls quiet. He has never dreamt of that specific scenario.

“Well, that might answer your questions.”

“I had dreams in which my Mark looked...active. Why have I never had any dreams in which he–?” He looks Angelique in the eyes, still trying to find any answers. “It’s been ten years.”

“It’s possible for the symptoms of the post-traumatic stress disorder to worsen during times of intense stress, big life changes, various personal struggles, or even for no reason at all. Has anything changed in your life over the last couple of weeks?”

“No! Everything is exactly the same as always.”

“I’ll ask you some questions, Draco, all right? I want you to know that I’m not doubting you–I just want you to think, to look closer at some aspects of your life.”

“All right.”

“Have you been working more lately? Staying after hours?”

“I often stay after hours. Always did.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m bored.”

“Does your job make you feel more stressed than usual? Maybe it’s more physically or intellectually demanding?”

“No.”

“Any new activities? Habits?”

“I baked a cake with Harry. Once.”

Angelique smiles. “How did that go?”

“Badly.”

She laughs. 

“There were eggshells all over the kitchen. All my fault. And the cake wasn’t even that tasty.”

“I’m very sorry. Met any new people? Or maybe had contact with people you haven’t seen in a while?”

“No.”

“How’s your relationship with Harry?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Good?”

“You don’t sound fully convinced.”

Draco looks down at his lap. “I’m grateful for what we have.”

“You can be grateful and still acknowledge that things aren’t perfect, that some things need improvement.”

“I don’t know what needs improvement. Maybe I need improvement.”

“What do you think you could improve in yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

Angelique makes a small pause before she continues. “Do you argue?”

“We did once in the last few weeks. That’s not bad, is it?”

“It’s not my job to tell you what’s good and what’s bad.”

Draco grunts. “It wasn’t a big argument. We made up the next day.” He stops to think. “Actually, there’s this one thing. The day before I had that nightmare, I felt quite strange. I don’t know why. I really don’t know why. I couldn’t look at Harry’s scar, you know, the one…” He touches his forehead, directly above his right brow, and laughs stupidly. He feels his hand trembling as he brings it down. “I mean, I felt both like I couldn’t stop staring at it, and like I never wanted to see it again.” 

He releases a shaky breath. He feels so stupid talking about it. He looks at Angelique and asks in a slightly fearful tone, “Do you think it means something?”

*

When Draco crawls out of the fireplace in his living room, he gets startled by the sight of Harry sitting on the couch. 

“Merlin!” he yelps, clutching at his chest. “What are you doing here?”

Harry looks up at him slightly confused. “Sitting?”

“Yeah, I see that.” Draco straightens up and dusts the ash off his robe.

“I’m sorry,” Harry gets up and comes up to him. “Didn’t want to scare you.”

“I’m not scared,” Draco says automatically. “Just didn’t expect you. Why aren’t you at work?”

“Have better things to do.”

Draco looks at him sideways. “Like sitting in my living room, doing nothing?”

“Exactly.” Harry smiles at him. Draco doesn’t like this smile—it’s too cautious. “How did it go?”

“Just like my every session.” He shrugs.

“Did you talk about your Mark?”

Draco rapidly loses his patience. “Of course we talked about my Mark, that’s why I went there!”

“You don’t have to scream at me,” Harry says coldly.

Draco looks away, but he can see with the corner of his eye that Harry is still glaring at him. “And you don’t have to ask me stupid questions,” he mutters.

Harry takes a few steps back. “You’re so infuriating,” he says quietly. 

“You’re free to go.” Draco gestures at the door.

“That’s your solution? Just telling me to fuck off? Merlin, Draco, don’t you see that I’m trying to help?”

“I don’t care what you’re trying to do. It clearly isn’t working.”

“Tell me what to do, then. Tell me what you want me to do.”

Draco shakes his head. 

“Why?” Harry sounds impatient.

Draco thinks about the answer for a moment. What are they even doing right now? It’s been mere minutes since he came back home, and they’re already arguing. But Draco doesn’t know what to do—he doesn’t know how to de-escalate the situation, how to silence his own angry thoughts that Harry is against him, that Harry is attacking him.

“Why would I be telling you what to do? It would look like I’m being sorry for myself. Oh, poor Draco doesn’t know how to deal with anything that is slightly inconvenient. He clearly needs a saviour, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not a fucking saviour, Draco. And there’s nothing wrong with needing people. Or with wanting to talk about things with someone.”

“I can’t talk with you,” Draco says bitterly.

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then he asks again, “Why?”, except this time he sounds hurt.

“Do I really have to have _the talk_ with you? You know, the one where I explain to you how you’re the Jesus of all wizards, and I spent all my youth tormenting people and then joined a fashist organisation—”

“What does it have to do with anything?” Harry interrupts him.

“It means that I deal with shit on my own.”

“You’re making no sense. Is it because you feel guilty?”

“Guilt doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’m just trying to make the right choices.”

“How is refusing to talk with me about serious things the right choice?”

“It’s about taking responsibility. You will not carry my burdens; that’s my job.”

Harry’s mouth is tight—it’s just one angry line. Well, maybe not really angry. Maybe Harry is frustrated or worried or just focused on coming up with a good argument—Draco has truly no idea what’s inside his head. 

“Can I tell you something that’s not exactly related?” Harry asks eventually.

Draco nods hesitantly.

Harry walks over to the couch and sits on the armrest. He doesn’t look at Draco when he speaks. “When I was younger, there were times when I was so scared that I was just like Voldemort. I was so terrified. I could do things he could do, like speaking Parseltongue. I could see what he saw, literally, as if I was using his eyes.”

Draco is familiar with all of this. “I’m sorry—”

“I know. I know, Draco. You know what made it much, much harder? I wasn’t fully honest with people, not even with Ron and Hermione. I was so embarrassed about it. I was hiding what I was truly feeling whenever I could. It was so hard, and so unnecessary, and I don’t want you to be going through the same thing.”

Draco shakes his head. “Harry, it’s not comparable.”

“It is. You think you’re evil. You think you’re a horrible person because you’ve made mistakes. You can talk to me about that. You don’t have to deal with it just on your own.”

“And you could? Why was it all right for you to not talk with anyone, but you expect me to do the exact opposite?”

“Because it was a long time ago, and I changed. I didn’t know how to trust people, but now I do. I trust you, and I don’t want you to suffer. I just don’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Draco looks outside the window. The red brick of the building opposite of his shimmers in the strong midday sunlight. “I don’t suffer.”

Harry gets up and comes up to Draco, slowly, as if not wanting to scare him. He puts his hand in Draco’s hair and strokes his scalp. “You don’t even see it,” he says as if he’s just realised it.

“I’m tired,” Draco says, as if that explains something.

“I know.” 

Harry pulls Draco in with his other arm and embraces him tightly. Draco doesn’t put up any resistance; he lets himself be dragged forward, be held. He doesn’t feel anything.

“I want to be alone,” he says after a short while.

Harry’s arms release him immediately.

*

Things quickly get back to normal after that one verbal confrontation. Life goes on, and the first thing that deviates from the routine is the Sunday dinner at the Weasley’s.

When Harry and Draco get there, they are greeted by Molly and Arthur. The two introduce themselves by their names to Draco, and Arthur even shakes his hand. Draco is slightly surprised by this gesture but tries to not show it. 

They also get told that no one else will come today.

“Ron and Hermione were supposed to come, but Ron came down with a terrible flu…” Molly explains. “Hermione is caring for him, poor thing. I just hope she doesn’t get sick, too.”

Draco recognises the stiffness in her voice—it’s the same tone he uses when he’s uncomfortable, when he tries to mask his true feelings.

“That’s unfortunate,” he says.

“Very,” Harry adds. 

“Come in, boys. Come in.” She rushes them inside the kitchen without further comment on the matter.

Draco spends little time looking around, trying to not appear judgemental. The interior of the house is—expectedly—the opposite of sophisticated, with everything looking cramped, worn-out and mismatched, but Draco finds himself indifferent towards it. He knows his parents would absolutely hate spending any time in such surroundings. Would they disapprove of his choice to come here?

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

He watches Molly levitating dishes onto the table and sends her a hesitant smile when he catches her gaze. She smiles back.

“We’re very happy that we finally have a chance to meet you, Draco,” she says, taking a seat next to her husband.

“I’m also glad,” Draco answers. He’s surprised to find that his voice sounds choked. He thought it would be easier.

Under the table, Harry takes his hand and squeezes shortly before letting go. Draco turns his head to look at him and realises it might be a mistake. Harry’s eyes are so full of love. He looks at Draco with indescribable tenderness, and Draco has no idea how to deal with it.

He tries to not think about it when he puts food onto his plate, when he picks up a fork and a knife and starts to eat. Harry’s presence next to him is almost burning, exposing, but he tries to distract himself with other things. The food is tasty, so he shares that observation with Molly.

“I might have asked Harry what you like.” She smiles again.

“Oh, that was—” _Unnecessary_ , he wants to say, but he stops himself. “I appreciate it, but I’m sure everything you cook is delicious.”

Molly’s smile gets bigger after hearing that, even though she still appears a little stiff. Everyone is stiff—everyone except for Harry, who might be either totally oblivious, or who simply thinks that by acting casually, the tension will eventually be relieved. It doesn’t seem to be working so far. Arthur, for one, hasn’t said a word since greeting Draco. 

Draco knows he has to do something. Well, he should have done it at the very beginning, but now, as they’re in the middle of the dinner, it looks like he has to wait. He waits until everyone finishes their meal, and then he waits a bit longer. 

He’s scared. He’s a coward.

To make the matters worse, he catches Arthur glancing at his neck—he quickly looks away when Draco notices.

Draco leans in and asks Harry in a whisper if he could leave them for a moment. It isn’t exactly the best manners, but he figures neither the Weasleys nor Harry would particularly care. Asking Harry to give them a moment alone is certainly better than dragging the Weasleys somewhere. It’s the best chance he has.

Harry excuses himself and leaves. Draco’s now in the room with two people and the truth he needs to face.

“I want to...” he starts. “I want to say something.”

The Weasleys keep looking at him patiently.

“Yes. We’re listening,” Molly says encouragingly after a moment of silence.

Draco looks down at the table. He can’t keep eye contact with them while he’s saying it.

“I’m sorry.” His words are quiet but clear. He opens his mouth to say more but can’t. He wanted to say so much more—he had this whole thing planned, but now he no longer knows what he’s apologising for. Almost killing their son? His father almost killing their daughter? Being on the side that took away their other son? Taking Harry, their precious almost-son Harry, and marking him with his own darkness?

He thinks back to the dream he had not long ago–the flames, the impossible heat, the inability to talk. Black puffs of smoke coming from his mouth. He feels like if he doesn’t calm down, he’ll start suffocating. It feels like the smoke is already inside his lungs.

He hears a rustle of a chair being pushed back, footsteps, and soon Molly Weasley is right by his side, cautiously pulling him into a half-embrace.

“It’s alright, dear,” she soothes him. “We forgive you.”

Draco thinks faintly that she shouldn’t be saying that. He thinks that it all shouldn’t be like this—he doesn’t deserve comfort, and he definitely didn’t come here to be comforted. Too little was said today—he only uttered sorry, and it’s not enough to forgive him.

Draco notices how the touch makes him uncomfortable, but he can’t bring himself to push Molly away, can’t bring himself to react because he feels it wouldn’t be fair. Molly’s body is warm, and her embrace makes Draco feel like a tiny child. He faintly thinks that it should be his own mother embracing him, providing him with warmth and safety, muttering assurances.

“Molly’s right,” Arthur speaks up. “It’s all in the past.”

Draco shakes his head, and he wants to scream at himself because he can’t speak— _he can’t_. He opens his mouth, but his lip only quivers, and he bites it to stop it. 

Molly only hugs him tighter. His body burns in the places she touches him, and he’ll let it burn.

A phoenix has come down to burn the sins out of his skin, and he’ll let it happen.

*

After the dinner, Draco wonders what Harry must have said to Arthur and Molly for them to have reacted so positively to his failed apology. Maybe he didn’t say anything. Maybe the Weasleys have acquired some kind of good, redeemed picture of Draco from the way Harry’s been talking about him.

Draco doesn’t ask Harry. He doesn’t want to know it that badly.

“So, the dinner went quite well, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Draco mutters.

Harry comes up to him. His smile is so loving, and he looks so proud. He cups Draco’s jaw and leads him to a kiss.

Draco turns his head away.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.”

Harry moves his hands down—as if he wants to either grab Draco’s hands or hold him by his wrists—and Draco immediately yanks his hands away.

“I wasn’t—” Harry starts. “I just wanted to hold your hands.”

Harry wasn’t going to touch his wrists. Draco knows it, of course. Harry has never done it after that one time he tried to do it and Draco panicked. It was years ago, and years have passed, and Harry has never done it again, yet, right now, Draco feels scared for some reason.

“Well, don’t do that either,” he says.

“You mean that you don’t want me to touch your hands anymore?” Harry asks slowly.

Draco takes a step back. “Oh, now it’s starting. I knew it would come.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I knew that one day you’d take offence with my limits. That it would all become not worth the trouble. That respecting my unusual wishes would become too hard, and then you’d simply give up,” Draco says, as if he’s had this whole speech ready to go for a long time. 

“When did I say all of that?” Harry utters, scandalised.

“You want to hold my hands, and I don’t want you to touch me. I’d say there’s a conflict of interests here.”

“Draco, I don’t understand what’s going on with you. Did something happen? At the dinner?” Harry’s expression shifts from mad to worried. “Oh, Merlin, did they say something to you?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “No one said anything to me. I apologised, and they accepted my apology. I’m afraid the conflict between you and me has nothing to do with them.”

“What happened, then? Why are you acting like this?”

Draco’s head fumes at the thought of all the unspoken accusations. “Why am I acting how?”

“Why are you so… angry? Why don’t you want me to touch you all of the sudden?”

“I just don’t. I don’t think I owe you an explanation.”

Harry falls quiet for a moment. “You’re right. You don’t owe me an explanation for that. I’m just… I hope you know you can talk with me.”

“Don’t you understand, Harry? Merlin, you really don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” Harry asks with exasperation. “And how am I supposed to understand anything if you don’t tell me what’s going on?”

The silence that falls between them is thicker than air, full of unspoken words and emotions never shown.

Draco wavers. He could talk. He could try to explain himself. As he keeps looking at Harry, though, rage keeps growing inside him. Rage at Harry, rage at himself, rage at his parents. Rage at the whole world, at all his mistakes and all missed opportunities.

He starts to unbutton his robe, with every opened button revealing more and more of his naked chest. His naked skin. His scars—fully in the open, for the first time in front of the person who caused them.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, even though he can see it clearly. Maybe he thinks that it’s enough to make Draco change his mind—if that’s the case, then he’s a fool.

Draco’s hands are quick and steady, and he’s at the fourth button when Harry speaks again.

“Draco, no. Stop,” he begs, then shuts his eyes close and turns away. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why would I not be doing it? Don’t I have the right to undress myself in my own house?” Harry doesn’t answer, so Draco continues, “Do I have no right over my body?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Draco shakes his head, even though Harry can’t see it.

“Please, just talk to me instead,” Harry says.

“I can do two things at the same time, you know? And I told you, you don’t get to decide what I’m doing with my body.”

“I wasn’t—” he starts. “All right, do whatever you want.”

“I’m not doing things on your command.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. I will do what I want, Harry.”

When Draco’s done with unbuttoning his robe, he simply lets it fall to the floor. He feels so incredibly naked, but the confidence with which he’s speaking doesn’t allow him to fall apart or cower.

Harry doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn over. He just says, “What do you want me to do?”, quietly and clearly, as if pronouncing a spell in an almost-empty library. As if thinking that it would solve anything.

“You are free to do whatever you want,” Draco answers nonchalantly. “What do you want to do?”

Harry doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

“Do you want to look at me?” Draco asks. “Or rather not? Would it feel appealing or scary? Or maybe disgusting?”

“Why would I think that looking at you is disgusting?” Harry asks angrily.

Draco takes one step forward. “Maybe because I’m a reflection of what you did.”

Harry’s shoulders slouch forward. When he speaks, his voice is quiet again. “I never wanted to do that.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you did it.”

“I know.”

Draco takes another step towards Harry. He isn’t going to get too close; he can just barely hear him. “Have you ever been curious about what they look like? The scars, I mean. The bathroom was pretty dark, and I don’t think you got a good look on how deep the cuts were, and how many—”

“Why are you doing this?” Harry asks, his voice shaking.

“You wanted me to tell you what’s wrong. I thought it would be easier to show you.”

“Draco, I know what I did to you. You really don’t need to show me—”

“But maybe I should. Maybe I should, because—” Draco’s voice gets stuck in his throat. He’s barely able to finish the sentence. “Every time I look at it, I get reminded of what you did, so I think it’s only fair that you get to experience that, too.”

Harry’s right hand travels to his face, trembling as if belonging to an old man.

“Harry,” Draco addresses him. “Will you turn around?”

Harry turns around. He quickly locks his gaze with Draco’s, completely ignoring everything else.

“You can look at me.”

Harry looks at the corner of the room, then at Draco, this time properly, not only his face but also his neck, his chest, his arms.

“What do you see?” Draco asks.

Harry inhales deeply. “I see… Draco, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to you.”

“You apologised long time ago.”

“I never apologised to you at school. I should have apologised to you then.”

“I’m not trying to make you apologise to me a hundred times over. I accepted your apology.”

“What is it all about, then?”

Draco sighs. “I’ve forgiven you for what you did to me, but it doesn’t change the fact that I still have to live a life knowing that you almost killed me. And I know that you have to live bearing the same knowledge. I know that you feel guilty for what you did. Guilt feels so horrible, doesn’t it?”

Harry doesn’t answer.

“You know what I struggle with? I don’t know whether I deserved it or not.”

“Draco, of course you didn’t deserve to almost die!”

“I tried to kill others. It would only be fair.”

Harry shakes his head and begins to speak, but Draco stops him with a firm gesture of his hand.

“Let’s say that I could look past it. Still, how can I talk to you about it when you’ve had to deal with the exact same problem even longer?” He looks at Harry’s scar, then back into Harry’s eyes. “How dare I talk to you about it? I served the same person who did this to you.”

“You were sixteen, Draco!” Harry looks like he’s about to cry. “Sixteen!”

“I’ve been doing horrible, horrible things throughout my entire life. Don’t you think I deserve a punishment for that?”

Harry laughs bitterly. “That’s your punishment? Almost dying at my hand? Or maybe Voldemort threatening to kill you if you didn’t—”

Draco covers his ears up. “Don’t say that.”

Harry instantly looks regretful. “I’m sorry.”

Draco takes a deep breath and puts his hands down. When he speaks, his voice is shaky. “I don’t know what to do, Harry. I guess I deserved it all. All the nightmares that I have, the fact that I can’t stand looking at myself, that I can’t stand people looking at me, that I feel like I need to hide all the time… It’s all just the price that I pay for my mistakes.”

“That’s not true.”

“There are days when I would agree with you. I guess you caught me on a bad day.”

“Draco…”

Draco looks at him.

“I’ll help you. You can count on me. We’ll find some way, so that you can feel better.”

Draco shakes his head ever so slightly. “I don’t deserve that.”

“That’s not true—”

“You know what the worst thing about these scars is?” Draco asks, ignoring Harry. “They’re so raised. I hate touching them because of their texture. The way they feel under my fingers actually makes me nauseous. It’s so disgusting.” He traces a finger along one of the scars that runs across his chest trying hard to not shudder.

Harry doesn’t answer. Draco figures he must have made him uncomfortable. This whole conversation might have been one huge mistake.

“I still have some work stuff to do.”

“Draco…”

“I don’t want to be rude, but I need some quiet to focus.”

Harry looks as if he’s debating what to respond. “All right,” he says eventually.

Draco collects his robe from the floor and puts it on while Harry lingers in the doorframe. Draco looks at him expectedly. 

“I love you so much,” Harry says and disappears behind the door.

*

Draco feels lonely. He feels so lonely in his empty flat, and in his empty office, and in the Library of the Dark Arts that is usually almost empty, too. 

He starts going for walks, every day, dragging his heavy legs forward and forward, wherever they take him. He makes discoveries exploring the Muggle area around his house. He didn’t know the town he lives in has more than one bookshop. He didn’t see the cosy-looking cafe just around the corner of his street. He doesn’t recognise any of the faces of the people he passes by—why would he?—but he can’t help but wonder how it would feel to know some of them.

Maybe there’s a John who works in that cafe, and maybe if Draco became a regular there, they could have a friendly chat from time to time. Maybe he would meet a Dorothy—an elderly, ordinary looking lady—in that bookshop, who would passionately talk to him about some Muggle classics.

Draco has never been brave enough to go to any of the Muggle places. He feels he shouldn’t. He feels that this territory is forbidden for him after all he’s done. Angelique has tried to encourage him to challenge these thoughts, to venture out and see for himself that he can be a part of the society as a whole, not just his small corner of wizards. 

Maybe, one day, he will do it. As for now, he keeps walking aimlessly around his town. 

Sometimes people stare at him. He’s not stupid enough to wear robes when he goes for walks in Muggle areas—obviously—so unusual clothing is not the reason why they pay so much attention to him. He actually thinks he could pass for a regular Muggle, with the jeans and jacket he borrowed from Harry.

Sometimes he worries that the reason why they stare is because they can read his mind, that they somehow know who he used to be, what he used to think of them, what he wanted to do to them. Then, he remembers that he has pronounced scars on his face. He remembers that his hair is almost white.

These people must be simply wondering who the hell he is.

Draco bitterly thinks it’s good that they don’t know the answer.

*

Harry sends him a letter, and a few days later another one. Draco doesn’t answer. He doesn’t feel like he can deal with it right now. He needs some peace of mind, some serenity. He needs to think things through, be more responsible, more careful moving forward. 

Contradicting all his previous thoughts, when Harry appears in his office one day, Draco wants to throw something at him. To make the matters worse, Harry doesn’t even have any work-related subject to discuss. He simply comes to Draco’s office to talk about private stuff as if he thinks it’s a wonderful idea.

“I’m at work,” Draco says through clenched teeth.

“I’m also at work.”

“Well, then you should be working.”

“Draco,” Harry lowers his voice. Of course, he doesn’t know how to take a hint and let it go. “Are you okay?”

“Why would I not be? And, honestly, I’m not going to talk with you _here_.”

“I owled you. Twice! And I was at your door yesterday, and you didn’t answer.”

“I wasn’t home.”

“Oh. Where were you?”

Draco leans back in his chair. “Merlin, I’m not going to talk with you here, don’t you understand? I thought you grew out of being so dense.”

Draco thinks it’s enough to make Harry a little mad, to make him leave his office. His words, however, seem to have the opposite effect. Harry stays where he’s stood, and—if anything—he appears even more dejected and miserable than just a moment ago.

“If you have nothing work-related to communicate to me, get out.” Draco is almost scared of the coldness of his voice, of the ruthlessness he possesses.

“Draco, please.”

He looks up at Harry, shocked by the begging tone. Once again, he asks himself what the hell he’s even doing. He was supposed to act more responsible. He didn’t want to cause Harry so much pain. He expected Harry to be angry with him after their last confrontation, after Draco’s stupid show of unfounded hostility. Foolishly, he didn’t expect him to be just hurt and worried.

“I’ll write to you,” he says, looking away from Harry. 

He sees out of the corner of his eye that Harry nods. Then, Harry leaves.

*

Draco needs a few more days to put his messy thoughts into some kind of order. Eventually, he decides it would be better to talk with Harry than to write him a letter.

When he knocks on his door, Harry seems surprised to see him. 

“Draco.”

“Hello. Can I come in?”

“Uhm. Yes. Of course. Just... Hermione is here, but I can tell her to go.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Draco says, but Harry’s already on his way to the living room. 

Draco follows him.

“Uhm, Hermione, I’m sorry, but maybe you could—” Harry starts.

“Oh, you’re not going to tell her to go, Harry, are you? I can come later.”

“We weren’t doing anything important,” Granger says, looking up at Draco. “Or confidential.”

Draco’s gaze jumps between them until he makes a decision. Granger’s expression is completely neutral, no signs of resentment. Harry looks quite unsure of what he should do. 

“All right,” Draco says. “I’ll stay, if you have nothing against it.”

“Of course we don’t. Sit down. Would you want some tea?”

“Yes, please.” Draco offers Harry a smile.

“Do you both always talk like that, or is it only because I’m around?” Granger asks when Harry disappears into the kitchen.

Draco huffs a laugh. “You mean—so dry and stiff? It isn’t because of you. For me, it’s just a remnant of being brought up in a family of incredibly pompous people.”

Granger gives him a surprised look. “I never thought that you’d grow up to be pompous.”

Draco’s heart starts beating faster. “What did you think I’d grow up to be?”

“I just thought you’d stay your old annoying self.”

Draco laughs. “I can assure you I’m still plenty annoying.”

When Harry re-appears in the living room carrying the drink, Granger addresses him.

“Harry,” she starts, “Draco says he’s still plenty annoying, do you confirm that?”

Draco looks up. He’s surprised that she decided to address him by his name. He’s surprised that she acts so casual, as if they’re a pair of old friends catching up with each other’s lives, bickering as if their past has always been bright and simple.

Harry sets the cup onto the table before he looks at Draco. His gaze lingers, searching for something, maybe the confirmation that they’re still good, that Draco isn’t terribly mad at him, that it’s all going to be okay.

“Of course he’s annoying.” Harry smiles tentatively at him.

Draco answers with a similar smile.

“Anyway, how are you, Draco?” Granger asks him. “It’s been a long time since we talked.”

“I’m perfectly well, thank you. And how are you?”

“You’re being aristocratic again.”

“Indeed.”

“What are you on about?” Harry chimes in.

Draco shares a look with Granger—with Hermione—before they both start laughing. 

It’s easier to converse with her than he thought it would be. It’s easy to hold up a conversation between the three of them, actually. Draco’s steaming cup of tea gets empty in no time, with no awkward silence between the sips.

“Oh, actually, if you don’t mind, Hermione…” he says at one point. “I have a question. It’s not a personal one, don’t worry.”

“Oh. What is it?”

“I’m working on a case where a person has been poisoned, and I’m having trouble identifying the potion. I have access to the Library of the Dark Arts—perhaps you know that—but I found absolutely no lead there which makes me think that maybe it isn’t a Dark potion, that maybe someone combined two common potions with the intention of causing harm this way.”

“Interesting,” she mutters.

“Could you recommend me some books on potions’ interactions? Particularly ones including Horned Serpent…”

They start to chat, momentarily ignoring Harry. Draco gets so caught up in the conversation that he jumps when there’s a sudden noise behind him.

The source of the noise turns out to be Ronald Weasley bursting into the living room through the chimney.

“Blimey,” he says, scratching his nose. “Uhm, hello, Malfoy.”

Well, Draco was right—Harry’s flat is always full of people. Friends, old acquaintances, work colleagues—always someone. “Feeling better, Weasley?”

Weasley appears quite dumbfounded. “Don’t worry. Hermione says I’m not contagious anymore.”

Draco laughs before he’s able to stop himself. “It was a common courtesy to ask you. I’m not afraid of your germs.”

“You should be!” he exclaims, taking a seat next to Hermione. “I was miserable for a whole week.”

Once again, it turns out that having a casual conversation with Ronald Weasley isn’t actually that hard of a task. What worries Draco more is that Harry appears quiet and withdrawn the entire time. Draco spends the whole evening glancing at Harry over and over again, but Harry never looks back.

“I know what we should do!” Hermione exclaims at one point. “We should take a picture together.”

When no one answers her, she adds, “Come on, it’s a historical moment. Plus, Harry never uses the camera we gave him for his birthday, so I think we should take the matter into our hands.”

“I do use it,” Harry responds. 

Hermione looks at him with kindly expressed doubt. 

Harry doesn’t argue with her—he just gets up and grabs it. He places the camera on the coffee table, adjusts it, announces that they have ten seconds and gets back onto the couch, next to Draco. He doesn’t touch him, but he looks at him for the first time since he brought him the tea, with the same careful, hesitant look. 

The flash goes off, and then it’s over. Draco catches out of the corner of his eye Ron pulling his arm from behind Hermione’s back. He feels so jealous of them for posing for a picture like any average couple, while he and Harry can barely even look at each other.

He knows they have to talk. 

When Ron and Hermione leave, Draco stays. The two disappear through the chimney, leaving a trail of the Floo powder behind themselves, but even after they are gone, Harry and Draco are awkward around each other. Harry excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and when he comes back, he still avoids Draco’s gaze.

“Look at me,” Draco finally confronts him.

“No, not this again,” Harry mutters under his breath but looks at Draco nevertheless.

“I’m sorry.” Draco tries to make it sound as powerful and honest as he can.

Harry waves his hand, looking away. “You don’t have to be sorry. You were right, and we should’ve talked about it way earlier. I needed to... face it, eventually.”

“Not really fair of me to put you in a situation where you need to face something you might not want to or be ready to face.”

Harry sits down next to Draco, still keeping a fair distance, and shrugs. “I think I’m used to it.”

“Idiot. Absolute idiot. But I’m an idiot, too.”

“I think we make a good pair,” Harry adds quietly. He sounds a bit like he’s expecting rejection; his voice is shy, and even his words somehow appear small. Draco already knows this conversation won’t be easy.

“I think we have to talk,” he says. 

“I know.”

“I’m still… I don’t know. I’m…”

“Angry?” Harry suggests.

“I’m not angry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay.”

“This is not easy for me,” Draco admits.

“I imagine.”

“It might not be easy for you, too.”

“That’s okay.”

“Harry, don’t go over your limits just to please me. Or because you think you have to. It’s all bullshit. If I start saying stupid shit, tell me to fuck off.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Just like in the old days. Just—don’t punch me, please.”

Harry is quiet for a few seconds, before he says, “Tell me that was a joke.”

“Of course it was a joke,” Draco responds, already slightly dizzy from the emotions this talk stirs up in him. He isn’t sure if his previous statement was meant to be taken seriously or not.

Harry looks at him sceptically for a moment. Eventually, he asks, “Do you want to start?”

Draco, instead of answering, says, “You wanted me dead.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I didn’t know what that spell was for, really, I told you—”

Draco shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. You didn’t try to help me.”

“I was… I was horrified. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I was bleeding out, and you just stood there and watched.”

“I was shocked, Draco. I didn’t…” Harry shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the unpleasant memories. “I didn’t…”

“I was clutching at my chest, trying to stop the bleeding, and you did nothing.”

Harry stares at him now, his eyes filling up with tears. “You’re right,” he croaks.

Draco waits, giving Harry the chance to say whatever he’d want to say, but Harry doesn’t use it. 

“You defeated a troll when you were eleven.”

“It wasn’t just me,” Harry says. His tone of voice is the opposite of defensive.

“You were just trying to save your friends, right? You would do anything to save them. You would never even hesitate.”

“I would do the same for you now.”

Draco tries to distance himself from the sting these words cause him. “You went to the Chamber of Secrets one year later to save Ginny Weasley, even though you knew it was guarded by a basilisk.”

“I didn’t go there alone.”

“You’ve always been ready to go and save anyone but me.”

“That’s not true—”

“Was it because I broke your nose at the beginning of the year, on the train?”

“Draco…”

“Was it because I was your enemy? But you never really wanted anyone dead.”

“I didn’t want you dead. I swear.”

Draco pauses the conversation for a moment. He notices that he interrupted Harry, that he didn’t let him talk—that’s not how he wants it to go. Only after he calms down a little, and only after it’s clear that Harry isn’t going to say anything, Draco speaks again.

“I will always live with conflicted feelings. I will always—” his voice gets stuck in his throat, and he breathes through it, trying to unclog his airways somehow. He still sounds choked when he slowly says, “I will always love you.”

The words sound so fake that he gets detached from them immediately. They escape him, sounding as if they’ve been spoken in an echo chamber. They hit the walls and hollowly multiply—love you, love you, _love you_.

Draco doesn’t dare to look at Harry. Instead, he says, “Every time I look at myself, I think of what happened. Sometimes it leads me to thinking about different things. Like my mission that you so rudely interrupted. You know, as Snape was leading me to the hospital wing, my main concern was Madame Pomfrey discovering my Dark Mark. I think I must have been pretty out of my senses, as I kept insisting he take me to his quarters instead and let me stay there for a few days.” 

When no response comes, Draco adds, “That was the funny bit, Harry. You were supposed to laugh.”

“He took you to the hospital wing,” Harry states instead.

“Yes, and he kept Madame Pomfrey under Imperius for the whole time I was there.”

Harry nods. He appears thoughtful, so Draco gives him a moment, but even after a while Harry still stays silent.

“Anyway, I tried to use an Unforgivable on you. You had the right to defend yourself.”

Harry shakes his head. “Why did you try to use that on me?”

Draco looks into the corner of the room, where there’s a big plant in a big brown pot. It looks healthy with its vibrant green leaves—Harry must be nurturing it well. “Why do you use certain spells at a given moment? When you have some time to think, you can choose a concrete spell with a specific aim. When you need to act quickly, you probably use your instinct and reflexes.”

“Did you need to act quickly?”

“You were there, too, idiot. We were duelling, remember?”

“So… yelling _Crucio_ was your instinct?”

Draco curls into himself slightly. “I was a horrible person, Harry, you know that.”

“You were a kid.”

“I was mature enough. I was almost an adult.”

“You were used. Did someone teach you how to use that spell, or did you start casting it on random people from your own initiative?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters!”

Draco doesn’t answer at first, instead he looks back at Harry, and for a moment they eye each other in silence.

“There are so many things I regret,” Draco says after a while. “I don’t know how anyone can look at me and see past them. I don’t know how you can do it.”

“I love you.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just… I just do. And I regret things, too. I regret what I did to you.”

“I know.”

“And I know that you regret the things you did,” Harry assures him. 

“It’s not that simple. It’s not equal. It will never be equal.”

“I know it’s not equal, Draco. But I apologise for never… doing more, I guess. I should have… I should have talked to you. I should have tried to help. I just thought you didn’t want my help. I… It’s so stupid—I thought you didn’t want to show me your scars because you thought I didn’t deserve to see them.”

“What?” Draco blurts.

Harry looks him in the eyes. “You’re just… so beautiful, okay? I thought it was—”

“A punishment?”

“No, not really. I don’t know how to explain it. I thought that maybe you didn’t trust me to look at you without me feeling guilty… And then you’d have to comfort me, which is obviously not something you should ever have to do for me. I just thought I didn’t deserve you giving me a chance.”

Draco can’t believe his own ears. “You’re so stupid,” he utters.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You thought you didn’t deserve to look at me… but you thought that I deserved to be with you? With my Death Eater past? How does that make sense?”

“You’re not a Death Eater. You only became one because—”

“Harry, you can’t go around excusing everything I did.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!”

“Then _you_ can’t go around clinging to the past as if it’s the only thing you have! The things you did years ago are not the only things you’ve ever done.”

“Oh, what else have I done?” Draco snarls.

“You’re making me happy. You have a job that helps people. You’re trying to become a better person, and I see your fucking effort, every day. I see how much it costs you, when you don’t have any energy left after you come back home, or when you get back from Angelique and barely talk with me for the rest of the day—I see it. I see how much you’re trying.”

“You’re making me out to be a damn puppy. Harry, I’m a war criminal! As if me doing one nice thing now can compare to any of the crimes—”

“After I cursed you with Sectumsempra,” Harry interrupts him in a harsh tone, “and after you were taken to the hospital wing, I didn’t care about you or what I did. At all.”

Draco could swear the blood in his veins turns physically cold when he hears it. “I don’t see a reason why you’d care,” he says coolly.

“I cared about the detention Snape gave me. I thought it was unfair.” Harry laughs bitterly, and Draco is scared of this laughter. “Do you understand it? I almost killed you through my own stupidity, and the only thing I cared about was the fact that those detentions collided with the Quidditch matches.”

“What’s your point?”

“That if you insist on thinking that you’re evil, at least please know that I’m evil, too.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say in response to that. 

“I love you so much, Draco. I know that everything between us is complicated, but I’ll do anything… anything to help you. If you let me, and if you want me to.”

“But I don’t know what’s wrong,” Draco mumbles. He feels like a child again. A weak, clueless child. His head feels empty, and he doesn’t know where this conversation is going, how it started, what its point is.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to figure it out alone.”

Draco looks at all the empty cups on the table—the signs of social life that Draco doesn’t really have anymore. Maybe, if he tried, he could change it. After him getting together with Harry, everything seems possible.

“I want to trust you,” he says. “And I don’t want to hide things from you. I don’t want to hide _myself_ from you—”

“All right.”

“—but I don’t know who I am.”

Harry looks confused. “What do you mean?”

Draco almost tells him the whole truth, here and now, impulsively. It boils under his skin, aching to get out. “I can’t—” he chokes out.

“Do you want to stop for now?” Harry asks, his eyes full of worry. 

Draco nods. He feels too insecure to ask for comfort, but he manages to shuffle closer to Harry. He puts his head on Harry’s shoulder, a wave of drowsiness hitting him shortly after.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, and for once, he doesn’t think the words he says sound pathetic.

*

“Do you want to stay here for the night?” Harry asks when Draco gets to the point of nearly dozing off. 

“Yeah. Just… fetch me some shirt with long sleeves.”

“Actually, I bought something for you. Just in case you’d ever want to say here overnight. Let me show you.” 

He grabs Draco’s hand and leads him to the bedroom. There, he opens his wardrobe and takes out a long sleep robe, similar to the ones Draco always wears at his flat. 

“What do you think?” he asks, presenting it to Draco.

Draco touches the soft material. All right, he was wrong—this robe is definitely more expensive than the ones he owns. 

“Thank you,” he says, kissing Harry on the cheek.

Then, he goes to the bathroom to change, just like he always does.

*

Harry’s bed is bigger than Draco’s, with a firmer mattress and bed sheets that are fluffy and warm. His bedroom is painted in lighter colours and has a big window, so that even on a cloudy day plenty of light comes in.

He and Harry drink coffee in bed. Draco could get used to it. He can easily imagine them establishing some kind of routine here. Or anywhere. He can easily imagine them actually living together.

He wonders if it would be fair to live with Harry when Harry doesn’t know _everything_ about him. Would Harry be upset? Is it one of his expectations—to know everything, to have the full picture of who Draco is? Is it even realistic to have such expectations? It’s not like Draco’s hiding any dark secrets anyway—he just doesn’t share the full extent of the sadness he feels. His life is full of white lies—that he’s happy, that he’s satisfied, that he’s stoical and strong, and that he doesn’t struggle. Draco pauses to consider whether these lies can even be called white.

But instead of asking any of these questions, Draco’s thoughts circle back to his own pretty dysfunctional family, even though he hates thinking about it. Growing up, he didn’t have a full picture of the world around him. He knew things his parents wanted him to know, and many of the things they shared were incredibly biased.

The building pressure under his skin is back, and Draco feels the need to talk with Harry.

“Do you think I look like my father?” he asks the first question that comes up to his mind.

Harry pauses mid-sip. “I used to think so, when we were at school. Now I… couldn’t really.”

“Because he’s in prison? And you haven’t seen him in a long time?” Draco asks, trying to not sound disappointed.

“Oh, no. You’re just… You’re not like him. It’s obviously clear that you’re family, but—” Harry stops abruptly. “Why are you asking?”

“I don’t want people to compare me to him.”

Harry nods and takes another sip of his coffee. “I think I get it. Many people have been telling me over the years that I look like my father, or that I have my mother’s eyes… At first, it felt nice. I felt like a part of them was still alive.” He looks at Draco sadly. “But some people didn’t see me as a separate person. They expected me to act exactly like my father used to. I wanted them to see me as _me_ , but I also didn’t want to hurt them. It didn’t feel great.”

“I don’t care if I hurt people’s feelings. I just don’t want them to see me as a copy of my father.”

“I don’t see you as a copy of your father. I used to when we were younger because you used to look up to him—you told me, right? You wanted to grow up to be like him. But as the time went by… Draco, I couldn’t look at you now and see your father. You are not like him.”

“But I _look_ like him.”

Harry takes Draco’s hand. “Oh. No, you don’t,” he says, but when Draco gives him a doubtful look, he adds, “not to me, anyway.”

“When I look at myself, it reminds me that I’m his son, and that he’s in prison, and that I hate him, or maybe rather that I feel like I should hate him more than I do. And it reminds me that he’s a broken man, but still, when he leaves Azkaban, he’ll look at me with disgust because I will never have achieved as much as him, whether good or bad.”

“Draco, you’re so clever, and so good—”

Draco laughs bitterly. “Please, don’t call me good.”

“You are good to me.”

“I wasn’t good to you for many, many years.”

“But still, your father... Your father kept torturing and killing people for years—”

“And I was exactly like him.”

“You didn’t kill anyone.”

“I was torturing people, Harry. You know that.”

“Yeah. And I saw what it looked like—Voldemort telling you that it was either you torturing Rowle or him torturing you. What a great choice.”

“I should have let him do that.”

“What, torture you? Are you insane?”

“As if it isn’t something you would do.”

“Draco, let me remind you I cast Cruciatus on Amycus Carrow for spitting in McGonagall’s face.”

“You didn’t do it _just_ because of it. Carrow was a pig and turned Hogwarts into a Dark Magic School.”

“And you tortured Death Eaters, bad people!”

“I _was_ a Death Eater!”

When Harry doesn’t answer, Draco continues his tirade.

“I should have never gotten the Mark. I should have let him kill me. I should have let him kill me and my mother and then my father and just end the misery of this bloodline!”

He only realises he’s shaking when Harry shuffles towards him, tugging at their joint hands in the process. He looks at his skinny fingers trembling in Harry’s grip, trying to stop them from moving on their own accord, but it’s all for nothing. Actually, the more he tries to take control over his body, the worse the shaking becomes.

He lets Harry guide him into his arms, trying to dull the feeling of embarrassment. It’s nothing. It’s just nothing. He’s had it worse. Losing Quidditch matches was embarrassing. Being hurt by a hippogriff was embarrassing. Being turned into a ferret was humiliating. As was being slapped by Granger, punched by the Weasleys and Harry after a Quidditch match, tortured by Voldemort after Harry escaped…

And just like that, he’s back there again—in his own house, lying on the ground, his muscles spasming with a lingering shadow of pain. He’s listening to his mother’s screams, to those horrible sounds of suffering, wondering who’s going to be the next victim. His heart is beating fast as he’s anticipating the moment the curse hits him once more, and he can’t stop thinking that it’s all his fault, that it all could have been so easily prevented.

“Shh, just breathe. Just breathe, Draco. It’s okay,” Harry says quietly.

Draco can’t believe that he’s almost forgotten Harry’s there, even though he’s clinging to him, even though he can feel the warmth of his body through his clothes and skin.

“Yes, that’s good. Just breathe.”

Draco slowly manages to push the memory out of his mind. The last thing he sees is his father’s face, gazing at him as they are lying on the floor, twisted in a combination of pain and fear, lacking its usual aristocratic dignity, lacking even anger.

*

When they’re having breakfast that day, Draco explains the concept of pain flashbacks to Harry.

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” Harry suggests hesitantly. He looks like he’s scared Draco will break at the tiniest sign of anything troublesome.

“I’m all right,” Draco assures him.

Harry looks like he’s weighing his options. “So, Angelique thinks this is what happened to you that night.”

“Maybe. She still wants to check my arm for nerve damage. To be honest, I’m not very enthusiastic about going to St Mungo’s. It feels like a never-ending, exhausting cycle of showing my arm to everyone.”

“I can go with you,” Harry proposes.

Draco smiles into his plate. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

*

Over the next few weeks, Draco solves the Miranda Barkley case. He goes to his appointment at St Mungo’s with Harry and gets to know that the nerves in his arm aren’t damaged. He talks to Angelique about it, and also about the new openness in the relationship between him and Harry, about difficult conversations and the progress he’s hoping to make. 

Things seem to be going well.

*

“Draco, come here!” Harry calls him.

Draco makes his way towards Harry through the sand that’s shifting under his bare feet with every step he makes. It’s also getting into the spaces between his toes, and the sensation is rather unpleasant. He seemed to have enjoyed it more when he was a child, spending summer holidays with his parents at the Mediterranean Sea. Maybe he enjoyed it more because that sand was warmer, maybe he was too enthusiastic about life—about swimming, playing, watching beautiful views—to pay attention to small discomforts.

Harry wanted them to go somewhere for the weekend—away from their flats, away from the familiar surroundings—so now they’re in a small town on the Yorkshire Coast, taking endless walks on the beaches.

When Draco gets to Harry, he looks at the small oval placed on Harry’s palm. “Well, you found an amber,” he says with utter disinterest.

“No, I mean—yes, but there’s an insect inside it.”

Draco takes the amber from Harry and holds it up. Now he can make out the shape of a tiny creature trapped inside the fossil. It’s sad, he thinks, to have your corpse accidentally preserved and exposed to anyone who finds it for hundreds or maybe even thousands of years.

“It didn’t have much luck,” he says, putting the stone back into Harry’s hand.

*

He can look at Harry without feeling like he’s doing something wrong. The lightning bolt scar doesn’t evoke anything in him anymore—no fear, no compulsion to never look away from it, no guilt. There are no conflicting emotions anymore—there’s just the sight of the person he somehow came to love.

Still, Draco hides in bathrooms and uses Vapour Charms on mirrors. He showers with his eyes closed and never changes in front of Harry. His social life is as non-existent as always, despite Ron and Hermione inviting him for afternoon tea and Molly and Arthur inviting him for another dinner.

Harry tells him that everything takes time.

*

“I have something to show you.” Harry reaches into the pocket of his robe and takes out a photograph.

Draco doesn’t need to look to know what it is. He immediately turns his head away.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks.

“Nothing’s wrong. I think something fell into my eye…” Draco rubs at his right eye, trying to appear convincing.

“You looked away from this picture as if it was cursed.”

“That’s not true,” he lies.

They’re sitting on the same couch where this picture was taken. That day, Harry looked unsure and lost. Today, he looks lost and a bit mad. At first, Draco has no idea why Harry could be mad at him, but he quickly gets to know the reason.

“Is it because of Ron and Hermione? You can’t stand seeing yourself right next to them?”

“Merlin, Harry.” Draco sighs heavily. “It’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

Draco bites his lip. This is stupid. He knows his reason is stupid, but it’s a true reason—the only true reason—and Draco committed himself long time ago to try to be more honest with Harry. So, he decides to tell him the truth. “I don’t like looking at myself.”

Harry appears perplexed. “But… you look good. In general, and in this picture, too.”

“I won’t look at it.” He points at the square of paper Harry’s holding in his hand.

“What? Why?”

“I told you—I don’t like looking at myself.”

“But why?”

“I just don’t, for Merlin’s sake!”

“All right, all right! I’ll take it somewhere where you won’t see it. I’ll put it on my desk.”

“No!” Draco shouts, surprising himself with the rapidness and intensity of his reaction. “You won’t do that.”

Harry simply stares at him. Even though he doesn’t do anything—or maybe _because_ he doesn’t do anything–Draco’s fear only grows instead of subsiding.

Now his mind is filled with vivid images—the Ministry officials yanking up his sleeve. People in the Ministry halls shooting him angry looks on the daily. The first time Draco looked at the fresh scars on his face, in the Hogwarts’ hospital wing, trying to not cry.

“Give me that picture,” he says.

Harry still doesn’t move, so Draco has no problem yanking the photograph out of his hand. He looks at it, for a brief moment, short enough to notice only a few details. Ron stares at Hermione with an expression of slight uncertainty, while Harry’s eyes wander from Draco to the camera, over and over again.

Draco is hit by a wave of anger so great he feels he won’t be able to contain it. He doesn’t understand his emotions—he agreed to take that picture, so why does looking at it now make him so furious?

He grabs the photograph by its corners and rips it in half. He doesn’t look at Harry—in fact, he isn’t sure if he would be able to look at him right now as his vision becomes tunneled, and all he can see are the pieces of laminated paper in his hands.

He makes another rip, and another, until his hands shake so much he loses his grip and the shreds fall onto his lap and then the ground.

Draco drops to his knees, determined to finish what he started, to completely destroy the picture, but then he picks up a piece that just manages to capture Harry’s face, directly staring at the lense with an expression of shock.

Draco yelps, and only a second later he realises he’s actually dangerously close to crying—his chest is clenched so tight he can barely breathe.

“Draco,” he hears. Softly spoken words, coming from up close—Harry must have knelt down. “Draco, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

Draco shakes his head so furiously he gets dizzy. Harry falls quiet. Draco thinks to himself that he’s being dramatic—that’s all. Pathetic. Shouting and almost crying because of a stupid picture. 

_Almost—_ because he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t allow the tears to fall; he desperately holds them back through not blinking and breathing in and out as carefully as he can. He only stares at one point of the carpet he kneels on, knowing that the smallest move could break his endurance, and he’d fully break down.

“Draco, can I come closer?”

“No.”

Harry exhales heavily. “That was so insensitive of me, I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

Harry says nothing else. Draco stays quiet for as long as he needs to make sure he won’t cry—then he gets up and walks towards Harry’s bedroom.

“Don’t come in,” he says, not looking at Harry, and soon disappears behind the door.

The bed is all he needs right now—soft enough to soothe the pain in his legs that came from a few minutes of kneeling, with the bedspread perfect to soak in his tears.

*

Being emotional and crying exhausts Draco to the point of falling asleep. He wakes up alone. He hopes that Harry knows he isn’t terribly mad with him—after all, if Draco was truly angry, he would have left Harry’s flat altogether. 

He fills the glass on the bedside table with fresh water, takes a few sips and decides to go back to Harry.

Harry is still sitting on the couch, reading some Muggle newspaper. He doesn’t wait—he immediately gets up and comes up to Draco, extends one of his hands, giving Draco enough space to easily back off if he pleases. 

Draco takes it. “I’m sorry for destroying that picture,” he starts.

“We can Reparo it. Or not. It doesn’t matter.”

“To me, it does.”

“You matter more.”

One look at Harry’s face, and Draco knows he’s being completely honest.

*

They don’t talk about it immediately. Harry suggests they eat something, and Draco agrees. 

They’re finishing their toasts when Draco says, “I haven’t looked at myself in a long time.”

Harry pauses mid-taking a bite. “What do you mean?”

Draco bites his lip. “I don’t take pictures of myself, and I don’t look at my reflection.”

Harry furrows his brows. “But… you mean—you don’t do that at all?” he asks softly.

“Yes. I don’t do that at all.”

“Does it also mean… you don’t look into mirrors?”

Draco wonders how slow-thinking a person can be. “Yes, Harry, that includes mirrors and every other surface that can reflect your image.”

Harry puts his toast back on the plate and stares at it hollowly. “When did it start?”

Draco knew this question would come. He knew it, but he’s not at all prepared to answer it.

“Do you not want me to ask?” Harry adds after a moment of silence.

“No. No, it’s just… It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Harry says with conviction. “Draco, come on, it’s serious.”

Draco looks down at the table. He doesn’t believe Harry. Even though he’s aware that it’s slowly destroying him, it feels like a small, insignificant issue. Who cares if he doesn’t look at himself? Isn’t that just a pathetic coping mechanism that a person as weak as him would develop after a while?

“It’s been… some time.”

“Did it start before we got together?”

Draco doesn’t answer. Harry leans back and closes his eyes. 

“I can’t believe things have been so bad for so long, and I never saw anything,” he says.

“Don’t be dramatic. I was hiding it, you know. That was the point.”

Harry gets up and encircles the table. He crouches next to Draco.

“What are you doing?” Draco asks.

“Apologising.”

“What for?”

“The photograph.”

“There’s nothing to apologise for. You didn’t know.” Draco buries his hand in Harry’s thick hair, strokes it back. “I should’ve talked to you about this a long time ago.”

*

Later in the evening, when their bodies are pressed to each other on the narrow couch in Harry’s living room, Harry asks, “Wait—how do you shave? Or style your hair? It always looks so good.”

“With a spell? I’m a wizard, Harry.” Draco elbows him awkwardly. It’s hard to do from this angle.

“Yeah, but it’s easier with a mirror.”

Draco shrugs.

“Are my questions annoying?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Do you work on it with Angelique?”

“I haven’t told her. Harry, I—” he hesitates. “I never thought it would become such a big issue.”

“I can imagine. It’s okay.” Harry pauses. “I just… Look, I don’t think I’m very good at talking, but you can talk with me. About anything. Really, anything. Don’t think I’ll leave you alone with it.”

Warmth spreads in Draco’s stomach, and he’s ashamed that he has a physical reaction to hearing those words. “It’s all right.”

“It’s important. I won’t let you suffer.” Harry looks at him with such intensity that Draco has to look away.

“That’s silly...” he says gently.

Harry probably decides to not argue with him. Instead, he pushes a loose strand of hair from Draco’s forehead. “Can I say that you’re pretty? Is it okay?”

Draco thinks about it. “It kind of sounds like you’re mocking me.”

“Beautiful? You’re beautiful.”

“I don’t believe that. I’ll believe you if you tell me: _you’re such a stupid git, Malfoy_.”

“You’re such a stupid git, Malfoy. You have such stupid, beautiful calves.”

Draco laughs. “Calves? Why calves?”

Harry shrugs. “They’re nice.”

“They look like they’re hairless.”

“You can see the hair if you look close enough.” Harry smiles.

*

“Don’t expect me to make some sudden, unrealistic progress. Just because I told you, doesn’t mean that now everything is perfect.”

“I know, Draco. I know. Don’t worry.”

“If nothing works out, it won’t be your fault.”

“Or yours.”

Draco nods shortly.

“In the meantime, I can be like one of those enchanted mirrors that tell people that they’re the most beautiful. What do you think?” Harry’s smile is mischievous. He wraps his arms around Draco’s middle and pulls him in tightly.

“As if you’re not annoying enough already,” Draco mutters.

Harry starts to sway him, making them dance in silence. Maybe there is some song playing in his head, as he seems quite committed to the movements.

“Are you going to play some music, or not?” Draco whines after a while. 

“Oh, actually, there’s this song… I want you to listen to it.”

Harry releases Draco from the embrace, puts the song on, and Draco listens. 

_I find it hard to believe you don't know_ _  
_ _The beauty you are_ _  
_ _But if you don't, let me be your eyes_ _  
_ _A hand to your darkness so you won't be afraid_

 _When you think the night has seen your mind_ _  
_ _That inside you're twisted and unkind_ _  
_ _Let me stand to show that you are blind_ _  
_ _Please put down your hands_ _  
_ _'Cause I see you_

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the song lyrics goes to The Velvet Underground - "I'll be your mirror".  
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> \--
> 
> Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/) on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!


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